


Training Dr. John Watson

by angelblack3



Series: We're All A Little Mad Here [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Obsessive Behaviour, Psychological Torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 57,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this universe, Jim got a hold of Sherlock way before he ever met the ones that were meant to save him. Now, they're happy business partners. Though, according to Jim, Sherlock isn't nearly as happy as he could be. He should find someone like Jim found his dear pet Sebby. Sherlock is skeptical, until he finds an army doctor with a psychosomatic limp in a twisted sense of fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been entirely by accident, meeting him.

It had been under Moriarty's annoying insistence that he "get out more" and "find someone nice" that Sherlock had found himself in a bar. The idea was to have casual sex with the full intention of Moriarty being aware that Sherlock was finally "getting some", so he could leave him to more interesting things. He had been working on a particularly elaborate embezzlement scam in the States before Moriarty had forced him away. Saying that if he didn't find someone tonight, Jim would have to get him off himself.

Though of course Sherlock knew that was an entirely unfounded statement. Jim had become much less amorous with his attentions ever since he had acquired one Sebastian Moran. Before, Jim had been hellbent on bedding Sherlock. To him, sex would have been the final way he could have Sherlock completely, not content that they were fantastic "business" partners.

Jim could have just taken what he wanted, but Sherlock knew there was no fun in that for Jim. So he had tried every which way from Sunday to bed the consulting detective turned criminal, but had immediately lost interest as soon as "Sebby" came into the picture.

As happy (as good a word as any) as Jim was, he apparently thought that Sherlock should have what Jim had. But Sherlock was very skeptical of the idea. Not only was sex dull and predictable, but prolonged exposure of "normals" practically drove him up the wall before he killed them. Who in the world could hold his interest like Jim had, while giving him an excitement that Jim couldn't?

Leaning against the wall of a shadowed corner of the bar, Sherlock scanned the crowd for a potential one night fling. Hopefully Jim would take the sexual activity for the distraction it was and leave him alone to more important things for a few days. Unfortunately, none of the occupants were even mildly stirring his interest for an encounter that would only last a few hours. The voluptuous redhead at the bar had spotted him earlier and was attempting to seek him out. But she was a bore, just regretting marrying early and hoping to seek as much attention from a handsome stranger as she had when she was single.

A man in a booth with his rugby mates was clearly trying to suppress his sexual attraction towards his best friend. Perhaps an entertaining thing to exploit at another time, but trivial. Dull, dull, dull, boring, easy, possible-no he's almost criminally stupid, god no, no, Christ what had happened to the populace while he was away?

This was actually increasing his boredom and frustration. Sherlock was half tempted to pull and elaborate vast homicide that would bury the bar in the ground and leave no survivors. For that, he should actually get a medal for ridding the human world of these droll idiots. Snarling, he pushed himself off the wall, ready to stalk back to work and inform Jim where he could shove his ideas of good intentions.

Striding past the crowded booths, Sherlock bumped into someone. A snarling curse was ready to pass his lips, but he stopped short. He can't believe he missed this man when scanning the place, but he can see why he did. The man at first glance is entirely unremarkable, but the eyes are what catch his interest in the way nothing has for a very long time. The man is short, stocky and has golden brown hair. Almost immediately dismissible, except for the eyes, which are an honest but sad blue. "Sorry mate." The man muttered before ducking his head again and striding past him.

It takes Sherlock a full second to realize the man is walking away from him. Immediately he starts following him. He's definitely not going to lose the most promising catch he's had all evening. The blonde man is darting around the patrons, heading straight for the bar. Sherlock thinks for a moment he's just another customer, but his slouched shoulders and determined stride don't match up. Sherlock looks ahead to the woman he's heading towards. She's practically drooling over the counter with a whiskey in one hand and a clearly dead mobile in another with the mystery man's matching hair colour.

The man catches her attention by placing a firm hand on her shoulder. Sherlock darts off to the side where he can watch without being seen. He wants to analyze a bit more, there is still something about this man that speaks to him. That says there's more for him to deduce if he just waits a little longer.

The woman sluggishly turns to the man gripping her shoulder and slurs "Johnny!" while tripping into his hold. She wraps her arms around him, bringing him a little off balance. She's not much taller than the stranger, but just enough that he has to step back a little bit to accommodate her leg span. A close friend or sibling then, if he's willing to drag her well inebriated arse out of a pub at close to two in the morning.

"Johnny" hefts a sigh that Sherlock sees more than hears in the din of noise. The woman continues to ramble on. "I tried calling you earlier, but you hung up! Rude!" She swats half-heatedly at his stomach and the man doesn't even flinch. "Hey Harry," (definitely sibling, not even close friends can get away with a nickname like that) "talking to Clara again?"

From the look his sister sends him, it's not hard to figure out that Clara is her lover (definitely ex). Despite her anger that he's brought up the source of her (returned) drinking habits, she still leans into his shoulder as he supports her weight on his right side. Sherlock almost misses it as "Johnny" turns away, but a flash of pain crosses his features that's more than just carrying something heavy.

It hurts to carry her, but he's still doing it anyway. Why? What part hurts? A wound on his right side? No, no stupid, the pain came when he lifted his left arm behind his head to distribute her across his back. Left shoulder then. Twisted? Sprained? No, look at the way he's carrying her. It's not an amateur grip of someone lugging a drunk loved one home, that's a practiced stance. It could be from many nights of pulling his sister away from pubs, but that's not it either. It's the way he's scanning the room, taking in the occupants and finding the easiest exit. Sherlock's seen it once before, when "Sebby" was still new in his training and still thought he had a chance of escape. A soldier then. And judging by the tan lines that are barely visible from the dim lighting and the jumper, Iraq or Afghanistan. Ooohhhh, this is getting better and better.

Sherlock follows them, out of the pub and into the alley. Harry's grating voice is still continuing as John (obviously not "Johnny" just as much as her name is actually "Harry") clambers down the pavement for a cab. "What happened to your cane Johnny?" she stumbles again and nearly threatens to knock them to the ground, but John reacts quickly and rearranges their balance. The question seems to startle John from the way his shoulders tense up, but he gives a modest reply. "Guess it's just not acting up today Harry, Jesus, at least attempt to walk straight for me okay?"

Once again Sherlock stops short. A cane? One that's been around long enough for even the drunk to pick up on its absence? Psychosomatic limp then. One that goes away when he views a pub as a metaphorical extraction site. The thought brings a smile to his lips. This is actually getting fun. But the very brief rush of "rescuing" his sister is already wearing off. When John tries to take a step with his right leg, the soldier gives a pained shout that he cuts off before it even has time to echo down the alleyway.

The sound...does things to Sherlock. Things he hasn't felt in a very long time. Not since the first slice of a knife through a living throat was felt along his arm and throughout his body. The sound of John's pain goes straight through his spine to tingle out his fingers. He very abruptly wishes he could've heard that shout in its entirety. He wants to hear every beautiful sound that John can make. From agony to ecstasy, he wants to hear it all. More than that, he wants to be the sole one to cause it. The sheer force it practically rocks through him and he shudders. He closes his eyes against the wave of intense pleasure and doesn't see the group of thugs approach John and his sibling.

He hears them though, when their leader starts demanding money and cooperation. Sherlock's eyes flash open, but he steps deeper into the shadows to avoid being seen. It would be easy to swoop in, to play the hero and gain his trust. Getting these morons hurt would be easy and not even slightly detrimental, as low on the "corporate chain" as they are. But once again his instincts tell him to wait. He wants to see how his (a shudder at the possessive) John reacts to danger.

"Easy mate," John's voice rings out, not a trace of a tremor. And Sherlock notes with satisfaction that he's putting the weight back on his "bad leg". Harry doesn't even seem to notice the imminent danger, she's just swaying in her brother's grip. "we don't want any trouble."

"Yeah I'll bet you don't, wallets and phones, now." The leader is waving a knife while his two companions watch the street for any curious Samaritans. John shifts and the man gets closer, and the knife is now steady. "Hey! No sudden moves!" John stops and Sherlock can actually feel the sarcasm when he speaks again, "She's kinda blocking my way mate. Unless you want a go at my trousers?" The reaction is quick, and Sherlock nearly reveals himself when the man cuts John's cheek. Regardless if this man escapes, Sherlock vows to have him killed.

"Be a wise ass again, and my mates and I will have our fun with your friend after I gut you." His colleagues hear the threat and turn to leer at the pair. Something shifts inside of John. His stance becomes more sure and his grip on Harry tightens slightly. His shoulders straighten, losing the weight they had carried a moment ago. Suddenly, John is a soldier in combat again, and the sight is so delicious Sherlock could roll it across his tongue. The thug is too stupid to notice it, so he lets John lower the only thing that could hamper what comes next.

As soon as Harry is sitting on the filthy pavement, John rears up with his left hand and breaks the man's nose with the heel of his hand. The man screams and staggers back, clutching his face with his free hand. John grips the wrist with the knife and twists and the weapon falls harmlessly to the ground. The man's companions finally realize what's going on, and rush in to help.

With ease, John pushes the bloody man into one of the rushing assailants. His friend fumbles, obviously not wanting to crash into his leader, so he catches him and tries to lay him down. The other one swings at John, but he easily evades the punch and delivers one of his own right into the man's stomach. He bends over, winded and John brings down the edge of his open hand to the side of the man's neck. He crumbles, unconscious. John looks over at the two men who are gaping at him from the ground. Well, one is gaping, the other is still cradling his nose. John, grinning and panting, huffs out "This is the part where you run away now."

Without hesitation, the two scramble for the exit, practically shoving each other out of the way. Once assured they're gone, John turns toward his sister to check on her. A plan of introduction is already forming in his head and Sherlock steps out of the shadows, acting out of breath. "Are you all right? I heard shouting." John whips towards him but sees he's not an acquaintance and relaxes.

"We're fine," John waves off "we were almost mugged but everything's taken care of now." He's shifting Harry's weight again and Sherlock can't help but ask "How do I know you weren't the mugger?" Instead of getting angry like Sherlock anticipated, John seems to appraise his question. Doesn't like stupidity then, he's glad that someone didn't just take his story at face value. John nods and grabs his wallet from his pocket and hands it to him before swinging Harry back again. A mugger wouldn't carry his own wallet with him, so Sherlock does a quick glance over the ID like a concerned citizen would, but in that second he has his address seared into his brain.

He hands the wallet back and glances at the motionless man on the ground. "Did you kill him?" he asks in what he hopes is concerned astonishment and not eagerness. "No," John says indifferently, so he didn't catch the flash of disappointment on Sherlock's face "I made sure not to." Sherlock files away strong moral values in the rapidly filling personal file of who he now knows is John H. Watson. "Listen," John looks a little embarrassed and Sherlock files that expression away too, though he doesn't like that those open blue eyes aren't trained on him anymore. "could you hail me a cab? My arms are a little full." In the span of watching all the little nuances of John's face Sherlock had completely forgotten about the parasite attached to his shoulder.

Sherlock grins for the joke it's supposed to be and heads towards the street. He notices John following him and again he's bombarded with want. He wants John to follow him constantly. To always be by his side, unconditionally trusting. He realizes he's quickly losing valuable conversation time as he raises his arm. He wants this to last. Wants to get to know him a little more before he takes John away from everything he's ever known. "So Iraq or Afghanistan?"

It's the silence that has him looking back at John. And this time he is angry, but he's mostly confused. Shit. He forgot he wasn't supposed to know that. But he already knows John so well, just not intimately, not yet anyway, that he forgot that John doesn't know anything at all. "Afghanistan." John replies slowly "But how did you know...?"

And Sherlock has never been able to resist showing off. Even though he knows it will make John suspicious and maybe even resentful of him, he has to show off. "Tan lines are the most obvious when first looking at you, it stops once it reaches your collarbone and above your wrist so not sunbathing, then there's the stance and haircut. Then there's the way you carry your (don't say sister you don't know that yet) friend, you distribute the weight evenly so it's easier to walk and balance. Most people would just have someone lean their whole weight against them and end up stumbling just as much, but you're used to carrying someone who can't carry themselves. You just took down a potential assailant without a scratch on you without killing him so obvious hand to hand combat training. Now why are you here and not in a desert getting shot at? You just winced a moment ago when you pulled on your left shoulder so a wound then but obviously not a normal sprain or anything mundane so a bullet wound. So Mr. discharged army combatant returned from Afghanistan it is a pleasure to have met you and your cab is here."

He reaches for the door, not wanting to see the disgust just yet (he'll get plenty of that later when he has him alone). Then whips around when he hears "That...was amazing." A snore punctuates his statement and Sherlock belatedly realizes she's been asleep this entire time.

 

"That's...not what people normally say." Sherlock says as he's leaning against the door of the cab. He distantly hears the driver say something irate, getting impatient at having to wait. Sherlock's heart is hammering away inside his chest. This goes above and beyond what he expected. He's ecstatic. He's found the perfect one. He's attractive, smart, fascinated and above all, interesting.

"Oh?" John's grinning and he's waving at the driver, signaling they'll just be a moment. "What do people normally say?"

(Please God stop no more I'll tell you everything just stop! Too late, I already know everything, I'm just bored. Monster! Freak! Psychopath!)

"Piss off." Sherlock deadpans. John laughs and it is wonderful. The cabbie bangs on the side of the window and John says "Yeah yeah alright, you'll get our money." Sherlock makes a mental note to have the cabbie killed as well. He won't do it, that's too dull. But maybe one of the bottom feeders looking to climb the food chain. He drags his sister towards the cab door and Sherlock hastily draws a few notes from his pocket and shoves them in John's direction. "Here." John glaces at the money and asks "Why?"

"You were an outstanding British citizen tonight, it only seems fair that I do the same." Sherlock shrugs, but he really just wants to do something at least passably nice for him. He's not delusional. He knows he's not a good man and what he has planned for John Watson is deplorable but he just doesn't care. He wants this man. In every way he can have him and he doesn't even blink at what that means. John smiles again (Sherlock loves stars but if that smile was his sky he would be happy) and says "I'll only take it for your name and number." Oh, he's flirting. Good, sexual attraction will definitely help things along.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm easy to look up." Sherlock smiles too and he's surprised to find that it's genuine. There's a brief flash of amusement in John's eyes. He definitely wants to take a crack at his name but decides it's too rude. John nods goodbye, graciously accepts the money, climbs into the cab after his sister and the cab takes him away. Sherlock watches the vehicle round the corner before whipping out his mobile and hitting his only speed dial.

"Sherlock dear! How's the hunting going?" croons an Irish lilt.

"I've found someone Jim, I just thought you should know that I absolutely won't be bothered for work until I call you first." There's stunned silence at the end and Sherlock pulls away with a grimace when an ear-piercing shriek of delight is heard through the phone. "Sherly-pie! I'm so happy for you! Oh, when do I get to meet the pet?"

"Not until I'm ready Moriarty. Do you understand me?" Sherlock is deadly serious. Jim may have directed his attentions elsewhere, but that doesn't mean he isn't still fond of his little "games".

"Loud and clear darling." The voice is jovial, but there is a tone of seriousness that lets Sherlock know he will adhere to this agreement. "Have fun!" He hangs up, knowing Sherlock hates not getting the last word.

Sherlock pockets the phone again then strides toward the alleyway where the mugger is rising to conscious. Quickly Sherlock plants a shoe into the man's spine and he goes back down, grunting in pain. He leans down, barely above a growl and says "You're going to tell me who the man with the knife was, so I can find him and peel the skin from his face, or you can drudge up whatever sense of loyalty you have and stay quiet and I'll make do with you." It takes a pathetic whimper that lets Sherlock know he'll get his man. People rarely actually follow their loyalties, except perhaps John. And god won't it be glorious when he has the man's loyalty?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Explicit Masturbation in this Chapter

After a day of hunting down the mugging leader and ensuring the rude cabbie's death, Sherlock had decided to hold off on bringing John home for a little while.

He was just so delightfully amazing while being completely innocuous. He wanted to see how John Watson interacted with the world before he broke him down and kept him solely for himself. It was the easiest thing to locate not only his address but also his place of work. Sherlock had once again been treated to a wonderful paradox of John Watson when he found out his preferred occupation. An army doctor, a killer and a healer. The discovery had left Sherlock grinning like a loon, yet the clinic's sole purpose seemed to be to keep John occupied, not bring him any enjoyment. Likewise, his tiny flat was a roof over his head and a warm place to sleep, not a home.

Sherlock remembered breaking into John's flat with a certain fondness. He hadn't stayed for very long, though he highly doubted the neighbors would even care that someone was being murdered next door unless it interrupted the television. The flat had been sparse, echoing John's limited possessions from his time in the military. A laptop and a RAMC mug had been the only thing that even resembled sentiment or valued ownership. Sherlock had been viciously satisfied that there were no pictures of Harry to be seen, though he could have kept one in his wallet.

Sherlock had been hasty in planting the bugs throughout the flat, but once he reached the bed, he had stopped. John's smell had permeated the flat and it was all Sherlock could do not to breathe in lungfuls, but the bed was the final straw. Beyond John's own smell was the tang of sweat and the crisp cleanness of shampoo. Sherlock once again filled his file with "preferred night showers". Sherlock leaned in closer to the pillow, where John had lain his head countless times to escape his dreary reality, only to be met with a crueler subconscious. Sherlock could practically hear the muffled whimpers of terror as John faced his own memories and shed restrained tears on the pillowcase.

The overwhelming scent, the headiness of being so close to his obsession, was too much for Sherlock. His quicksilver eyes had flashed open and he blew out a gasp that spread softly over the pillow. He was stunned to realize he was straining against his trousers, aching to be near John right now. With a trembling hand Sherlock unzipped himself, his cock leaking and hard. Sherlock quickly covered the head to prevent any precome staining the sheets, while he stroked with the other. He thought about having his army doctor pinned underneath him, whimpering in a combination of fear and pleasure. To have Sherlock be the only thing that John saw, that John ever thought about, ever. Thinking of what it would be like to have those expressive eyes trained on him in defiance, anger and horror as Sherlock did whatever he wanted, God he was nearly undone but not here.

Sherlock was always careful and wiping his semen all over his doctor's sheets was definitely not careful. Sherlock smirked when he managed to spot the predictable box of tissues by the bed. Grabbing one, he placed it over himself, thought about licking and biting John's bullet wound until it was bloody again and came into the little square. By far, that was the most powerful wank he'd had. Sherlock always found himself grinning whenever he thought about what it would be like to finally stop fantasizing and have the real thing in front of him.

Sherlock placed the last camera and microphone, flushed away the damning tissue and left the flat with a satisfied and rather lascivious grin.

The memory of that sent a shudder through Sherlock as he leaned against the wall across from the clinic. It had been three days since Sherlock had met John, and the man had yet to get into contact with him. Sherlock hadn't been lying when he said he was easy to look up. His unique name in the phone books notwithstanding, Sherlock had a website. While it would be simplicity itself to simply disappear and rule the criminal underworld invisibly, Sherlock rather liked being cheeky.

The website was practically sterile in its simplicity. It contained the title of "Sherlock Holmes; Unique Business Associate", a phone and fax number, as well as a subtly barbed message underneath that if the message wasn't important you could kindly bugger off. Hardly incriminating, and if the police had ever heard of a Holmes being involved in criminal activity, they would be directed to a message machine in a harmless building in Central London.

Sherlock had checked his message machine several times from his mobile, but there had been no messages from John. Perhaps the man had forgotten about their encounter? The thought made him irrationally angry, but he dismissed it quickly. John had no reason to forget and he had seemed eager to meet again, so what was the hold up? Sherlock practically burned to talk to John again. He could be patient when it was required, but the repeated tapping of Sherlock's foot on the pavement showed he was close to his limit. He needed to be in John's space, to occupy his head and to know John and see him and hear him. It was time for another "accidental" meeting.

He waited for John's shift to end, then set himself up by the door that John always left from. The plan was to walk into John, acting like he had business elsewhere and had just happened to show up. That was the plan, but it was completely derailed when he was accosted by a gun pressed to the small of his back. A voice addressed him intently, and by the position of the gun and direction of the voice, his assailant was approximately seven inches shorter than him. "You are going to calmly walk to the alley to the left, and if you make any attempt at getting noticed, I will shoot you through the spinal cord."

"Kidney." Sherlock curtly replied while complying with the order.

"What?" God, did Sherlock only attract the stupid ones? Why did Jim get to have all of the witty banter?

"The position of your muzzle is not directed over my spine, it's over my left kidney, Mr. Pickner." Sherlock reached the end of the alley and turned around in time to catch the flash of surprise over Pickner's face.  
"Please, not many people are stupid enough to threaten me in broad daylight, across from several cameras, when people are just getting out of work. Not to mention that your atrocious Cockney accent is not something that I can forget very easily, no matter how much I try."

"God, they really aren't paying me enough to deal with your smarmy arse, no matter how brief it will be." Pickner snarled, eyes darting behind him. The man really was an idiot, brandishing a gun at a high profile crime lord while having his back to the open. He was quickly realizing this, so Sherlock needed to distract. At least long enough for whatever mildly competent security tail Jim had sent yesterday.

"Ah, so it's a 'they' is it? Who is it this time Pickner? Mafia? No? Business tycoons? Not that either? Ah, government then?" The grip on the gun became a little tighter. "Oh, that is interesting. Seems even filial bonds aren't enough to stop my brother from finally putting down the biggest blot on the Holmes' name."

Pickner started, gun lowering slightly. "The creepy bloke with the umbrella is your brother?"

"Scared Pickner? You should be, chances are he's already taken the measures to have you dealt with after you kill me. I suspect that by sunset, unrecognizable bits of you will be floating in the Thames." That might have been a bit excessive, since the gun is trained back on him.

"That's it, your brain's gonna paint that wall before-" he's cut short from a punch to his kidney, and he gives a howl when John wrenches the gun away by getting him in an arm lock and snapping the bone at the elbow.

"Right, that's enough out of you." John stated, letting the man go so he could fall back onto his rump. While the man whimpered pathetically, John scooped up the gun and trained it on his forehead. "You alright Sherlock?" Johns asked, eyes not even twitching from his sight on the criminal.

"Ah, so you do remember me." Sherlock griped, reaching for his phone. Let John think he was calling the police, he had some people that could make this disappear. John finally looked at him, his eyebrows raised in surprise before he broke into a grin.

"Yeah, sorry, I really did mean to call, looked you up and everything, but works been busier than hell lately with the flu that's been spreading. Oh, you don't need to call the police, I had one of the nurses phone someone when I saw you being led off." That's...inconvenient, but the police don't know who Sherlock is and have no reason to suspect him of anything. Pickner knows better than to talk, though it will hardly save him from the "tragic accident" that will occur later that night at the hospital.

"You just decided to intervene an irate man with a gun?" Sherlock asks sardonically.

John's looking back at Pickner, and Sherlock wishes he would just shoot him already so the slug is no longer the center of John's attention. John's still grinning while Pickner is looking back and forth like he can't believe that two men are casually having a discussion while his arm is hideously misshapen.

"Well yeah, he seemed like he was going to shoot you on the street if there wasn't so many people around." He shrugs while saying it, like it was completely normal to rush in to a scene involving firearms while rescuing a man that he barely knows. It hits Sherlock like a freight train. Unbelievably, he already has this man's trust. He doesn't know why, and maybe John isn't even aware of it, but John's only a few encounters away from complete friendship (love?) and loyalty. The decision strikes him with sudden finality. He's taking John, tonight, no more waiting.

"Has anyone ever told you that you are completely without sense?" Sherlock asks numbly. He doesn't think that might have been a cruel barb, he's just struck with the sudden urge to leave so he can make preparations. But again, John defies normalcy by laughing. "Yeah well, I was in Afghanistan." His eyes sparkle when he's smiling at Sherlock like that and Sherlock can't help but grin back. Unknowingly to the both of them, Pickner rolls his eyes while wincing.

Any further conversation is cut short when sirens are suddenly blaring and several policeman rush into the alley. There's a brief rush of angry confusion since John's the one with the gun, but a brief explanation from John and Sherlock has Pickner being led away in an ambulance with a sergeant in the back. Sherlock and John are waiting in the alley, ready to give statements to the police. A chime comes from Sherlock's pocket, it's a text from Jim.

"Called off your guy when I saw the CCTV of short, stocky and blonde heading after you with Pickner. He may not have looks, but he's certainly got guts! (Pun not intended, lol)  
XXX ~Jim."

He presses the delete button a little harder than necessary and finds John staring at him. "Business partner." Sherlock answers. "Rather annoying but he gets the job done."

Something occurs to John and he asks, "By the way, exactly what kind of business do you do?"

"Hmmm?"

"Well, your 'friend' had a silencer on the end of his gun and he attacked you in broad daylight. I mean, I only noticed because I'm used to seeing what a hidden gun looks like, but seriously, what the hell kind of mugger gets a silencer and uses it on just anybody? For that matter, what kind of mercenary kills a 'Business Associate'?"

Sherlock's appraising John again. True, it took a long time, but certainly not as long as some people. The police haven't even asked them about it. Not that they will, if Jim only just texted him that means he's been talking to the people that will have this case swept under the rug in a matter of hours without questions. Asking for statements is just procedural and doesn't raise suspicion.

Sherlock responds "I'm in accounting." There's silence, and now John's looking at him like he's either joking or insane.

"You're kidding." John states.

"I'm really not. Tax season brings out the absolute worst in people. You should see what happens after Christmas." He looks John in the eye before they break down giggling. Oh, he can't wait for tonight. When John gets his breath back under control he asks "Are you always going to be this mysterious?"

"That's rich, coming from the man who still hasn't told me his name." He's only just remembered that this is true and had been extremely careful in not letting it slip. John's also startled that this bit of information hasn't been given and he grins while holding out his hand. "John Watson, ready to plunge headlong into danger and known to break arms at the drop of a hat." Sherlock takes the hand, and revels in the electricity that shoots up his arm at the contact.

"Sherlock Holmes, as you know, mysterious tax accountant and attracted to adventurous men." Sherlock's grin turns into a smirk, and by the look in John's eyes, the flirtation is well received. Sherlock notices that he's being waved in by one of the policeman. "I'm afraid I have to leave after this, though I do dread the paperwork, but it's been a pleasure John. I am very grateful that you saved my life." A flash of disappointment crosses John's eyes, but he quickly stamps it down.

"Trust me, it was no problem. Here." John grabs a receipt from his pocket and a pen from his jacket. He scribbles something down and hands it to Sherlock. "Here's my number, hope to see you soon?" The question is there, and John almost looks abashed. Sherlock wants that expression framed somehow. Sherlock also has a brief moment of humor that John really shouldn't be that hopeful of seeing him again. 

Before Sherlock walks away, he leans in, preternaturally bold and growls in John's ear, "That's a promise." John's blushing and Sherlock has only a moment to relish it while he stalks away, heart pounding at the wonderful night that's about to happen.


	3. Chapter 3

As he suspected, the talk with the police officer proves to be idle conversation at best and a horrendously vague statement at worst.

Though honestly he's already deleted the discussion from his mind, too wrapped up in thoughts of John. He finds his security tail easily enough, and gets a ride back to his place of work. There, he picks up the supplies he needs and is able to get John's room ready without running into Jim. Which is surprising, but perhaps he should give Moriarty more credit in the use of tact. He truly has no interest in witty banter tonight, and Jim must be respecting that. After all, it wasn't that long ago that Moriarty had his turn with the thrill of the hunt.

By the time everything is arranged, it's nearing two in the morning. He drags his hapless guard along and borrows one of the disguised cars, a cab that is a leftover from the Jefferson Hope case from a few months ago. Sherlock had been rather fond of that one, the man had killed over eight people before succumbing to his brain aneurism. He disguises the guard appropriately, and they're off to collect John.

Sherlock breathes deeply a few times on the doorstep of the dingy apartments. The cab is idling, a siren of a warm engine in the damp London night. Sherlock should wait until morning, or even tomorrow night to be safe, but he knows that John will follow him even now. Today's, no yesterday's, display of loyalty proved that. John has formed just as strong a bond as Sherlock has, and he plans on exploiting that without regret. While Sherlock does want this to go smoothly, he is a little disappointed at how easy this will prove to be.

He's not disguised, his Belstaff coat is undeniably distinguishable, but he can never resist the flair for the dramatic. Not to mention that the CCTV cameras along the street are all on a continual loop for the next twenty minutes. Sherlock's about to buzz John, when he notices the too polished and posh car in the reflection of the glass. Ah, he should have suspected his brother would continue to pursue him. Should have even known that he would have someone watching John's apartment.

No doubt his multiple interactions with the army doctor have sent up red flags. In fact, between Pickner and now, Mycroft could've already "talked" to John. Warned him even. Told John all about him. His face pulls into a furious frown, but then into a vicious grin when a plan shoots through his mind. God, but he does love being brilliant. He needs to act fast, Mycroft's cronies are either phoning the police or his brother. Neither of which he wants to deal with.

In the second it takes for the realization and the planning, Sherlock buzzes John's room several times in earnest. He waits exactly two seconds before buzzing again several more times. Hasty, impatient, and desperate, he needs to give off the idea of helplessness immediately. It's one and half seconds when John answers with a groggy "Hello? Who is-" Sherlock cuts him off "John! John I'm so sorry, I need your help!"

"Sherlock?" The question is surprised and concerned, not at all suspicious. Oh, Mycroft's fault is that he's also dramatic. He was too vague. John knows nothing. The satisfaction and relief shoots through him like a hit. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

"I--I think I'm being followed again! Normally I would've called the police but, Jesus I think they've been tailing me since the questioning and I have a feeling that they're working for the Met! I got scared and looked you up in the books and I'm sorry it's so late, but I'm terrified, I can't even-"

"Sherlock, calm down." John's voice is calm, assertive. "I think I know who's after you, so I'll buzz you in and we can sort this out alright?" John thinks it's Mycroft, which is excellent and not entirely untrue. But Sherlock needs him outside and coming up to the flat will take too much time. He has approximately four minutes if they called the police. Six if they called Mycroft.

"No! No, John please, I just, want to go home and I have a cab waiting, but I couldn't stand being alone so, I know this is a big favor but could you please just-" this time he cuts himself off, choking back a sob.

"Yeah, yeah alright just give me a moment okay? I'm coming down." Sherlock knows from experience that it takes two minutes at a brisk pace down the steps. And John will take the steps, he won't trust an elevator if Sherlock is obviously pressed for time. It takes John one and a half minutes. And by the way he's smoothing out the back of his pajamas, there was a fifteen second delay in which he grabbed his gun and put on his shoes.

Sherlock's used that time to look so thoroughly disheveled that he almost clutches John, slipping in his desperation. Though not in the way John thinks. "Thank you" Sherlock babbles "Thank you thank you so much the cab's this way." He runs a hand through his hair while briskly walking, and John's features tighten in concern as he scans the street. His lovely doctor attempts to diffuse the tension by cracking "If this is an attempt to get me to your apartment, all you had to do was ask."

The surprise covering his face is not entirely fake, and he eases his outward stress somewhat while making a ghost of a smile. Mycroft's henchman is getting out of his car, clearly alarmed that the target is walking off with his stalker. John's eyes fixate on him and he grits out "Is that him?" Sherlock can tell John wants to confront him, maybe even shoot him, but that will take up time. They need to go now.

"I think so, but I've never really had a good look at him. He might just be alarmed that you're barely dressed." He cracks at the end of the sentence, a sign that his humor is failing to comfort him and that he only wants this all to be over. "Please, John, can we go?" It should be hard to appear pathetic, as tall and intimidating as he usually is, but he's finding that motivation is a powerful tool.

John looks at him, those honest and clear eyes pulled tight in sympathy. "Yeah, alright let's go. Don't want to offend his eyes any further." John places a comforting hand at his back, and Sherlock nearly gives the game away with the shudder that runs through him. But John takes it as a symptom of frazzled nerves and doesn't comment.

They enter the cab, and it's John who gives the command to drive after Sherlock stutters out a fake address. His man knows where to go. The triumph washes over him slowly. He's done it. He's won. John is here. John is his. John takes his smile and relaxed posture as relief and tries to strike up conversation on their journey home. "So, any idea why a pompous git with an affinity for warehouses and riddles would send someone after you?"

Sherlock reaches into his pocket, pulling out the syringe and uncorking it subtly with his thumb. "Oh, I imagine to rescue you." He should drug him now, but he wants to see it. Wants to see John's reaction when he realizes what kind of fate he's signed up for. John frowns in confusion "Rescue me from what?"

He sees the syringe an instant before it penetrates his thigh, needle easily passing through the thin material. The plunger presses down with grim finality. John grips Sherlock's wrist to either pull him off or break the hand itself, but it's too late. As the flunitrazepam floods his system, Sherlock's leaning close to him with a demonic grin. The last thing he hears before complete darkness is Sherlock whispering "Rescue you from me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this one shorter because I liked where it ended. Next one will be longer!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this Chapter: Drugged Molestation

Sherlock is blessed with one glorious moment of watching John's face change from shock, to realization, then pain from the needle and the betrayal, to anger, and yes, there it is, a hint of fear. Then the drugs have worked and John's eyes close and his body goes completely lax against the seat. Sherlock knows that duller people would call John's expression "peaceful", but Sherlock is far from dull.

He's never seen actual evidence of John's nightmares (the cameras had been for nothing after all), but he knows they exist. A post traumatic army doctor that aches for adrenaline could hardly have a pleasant psyche. The drugs alleviate him from dreams of any kind, but John's demeanor doesn't seem soothed. He just looks, well, drugged. Like his mind is still aware that there should be a battle going on but his body is unable to do anything.

Sherlock studies this new development like he studies all things about John Watson. Obsessively. Sherlock doesn't even realize that he's reached forward until his fingers are tracing the wrinkles on John's face. It fully hits him then. John's here, completely helpless and pliant, and Sherlock can do whatever he wants. With renewed fervor, he traces the many creases in John's face. He traces the crows feet with care, and the laugh and frown lines feel like veins of gold in human skin.

Sherlock can feel himself grinning and he inches a little closer. With his thumbs, he feels the contours of John's eyebrows while the rest of his fingers are splayed and still. He cups John's cheek with his right hand, and plays with the thin hairs on his forehead with his left. He accurately measures the size of John's eyeballs by tracing them through the lids with his thumbs and forefingers. When he caresses John's lips with the barest edge of his fingerprints, it's like feeling the hum from a static charge. Sherlock hasn't realized how close he's gotten until warm breath is reflected back at him.

A subtle shift of his legs informs him that he's also quite erect. He's not sure what he would do if the driver wasn't throwing conspicuous glances in the mirror. He glares at the man, annoyed that a third party had to be involved in this at all. Perhaps he could kill him later? Let John's drugged complacency be a secret only to Sherlock? But, no, the man is slightly competent. And Jim's always complaining how they don't have enough good help. If he kills this one, he'd never hear the end of it.

With a huff, Sherlock presses himself to the other side of the cab. Best to resist temptation for now. He's one finger trace along a sturdy cheekbone away from ravishing John here in the backseat. Sherlock watches the streets of London flash by. No doubt his brother will be popping a vessel in his massive forehead by now. Not only has the man failed to either kill or capture his own little brother, but he has also let slip a rare baiting ploy. The thought sends a little grin across Sherlock's lips.

He's pulled from his pleasant thoughts when the driver coughs "Uh, Boss? We're here."

Sherlock is regrettably reminded how much a third party is needed when he has to lug John's prone body out of the car. The man helps by bringing around a wheelchair that Sherlock had left in the garage for this purpose. When they have John positioned, the man attempts to follow Sherlock to be of further help, but Sherlock waves him away impatiently. Let him go bother someone else for something to do. He has much more important things to attend to.

As Sherlock is wheeling John to his new room, he contemplates what is to come in the next few hours. Honestly, he's forced to admit that he's a little out of his depth. This is hardly his first kidnapping, but usually the intent is to keep the victim for a short period of time, then dispose of the body. He's not used to trying to make one stay of their own will.

In between time watching John, he's read up on all the advanced behavior modification techniques. While they have proved useful, he's unsure of how effective they will be. Or even if they will be too effective. He knows that he wants John to belong to him and only him. He wants John broken down, then reconstructed to fit his needs.

But he doesn't want a drooling doll. That completely eradicates the whole significance of finding John. He could've picked up anyone off the street for a sex doll. What he wants is the soldier, the doctor, the man that wears hideous jumpers to cover a core of pure iron. So how does he get a man that is as fundamentally good as John to be true to him without breaking him down to a babbling mess?

As he presses the code to open the magnetically sealed door, he finds that the answer was only difficult in its simplicity. He will just have John Watson fall in love with him. John already finds Sherlock sexually attractive, and was perfectly willing to step into the line of fire in order to protect him. After this, Sherlock wryly thinks, it will certainly take a bit of time to gain back his trust. But it was there at one point, so that's something to work with.

As Sherlock looks around the white room, he thinks about restraints. Should he give John a sense of belonging and leave him free to roam the room? The two cameras pointed at either corner will warn him of any attempts to escape, and the thought of watching John try to get his bearings would be adorable, but, no. If he left John unbound, it would mean bringing in an armed third party every time he tried to establish a connection. Restraints it was then. Ah, but what to choose from?

A pleased shudder goes through Sherlock's long frame, and he's glad he decided on bonds. The thought of John waking up, struggling futilely against his physical imprisonment is something that he eagerly awaits. Sherlock decides that he wants John as comfortable as possible to start things off well. He wheels them over to the white steel bed in the middle of the room that's bolted into the concrete floor. Medical restraints with soft lining cross the bed at the feet, wrists, chest and thigh areas. The buckles are on the side of the bed, completely inaccessible unless a second person is present.

Sherlock grunts as he lifts John onto the bed, positioning him on his back. Sherlock takes a moment to relish the sight of him completely docile on the bedding, then he removes John's shoes with care. He buckles John in securely, pads for the wrists and ankles while normal nylon belts hold him down everywhere else. John is completely immobilized, and he's only dressed in pajamas and socks, making the vulnerability absolutely delectable. Sherlock looks around the sparse room to distract himself.

It's 20 x 25, but the absence of furniture makes it appear larger. There's a corner with a curtain that hides the toilet, as well as a tiny sink. Sherlock had debated with himself over the access to privacy, but decided to give John as much privilege as possible. There are no cameras in the bathroom area itself, but the ones in the room can see it easily. There is a small cage leaning up against the left wall that was Sherlock's other option for restraint. It's made to look like a dog kennel, but the proportions are too large for any dog, but small enough to have a human kneeling uncomfortably inside. The deadbolt on the door is also a bit excessive for any canine. Sherlock will have to remove that later, he doesn't want to scare John. At least, not yet.

Besides that, the bed and a non bolted table and chair there's really nothing else. Sherlock had been completely stumped as to what he should have in the room. Normally he would have his toys left on gleaming display for his prisoner to fret over which one he would use first. But since he wants John at ease, perhaps he should consider adding in more things to make the cell appear like a home. But that will come later. He'll decide what course of action to take when John wakes up.

Sherlock knows it won't be until the next day when the drugs will wear off, so he leaves. He has a bit of work to catch up on, and he can watch the footage of John sleeping on a live feed from his laptop.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Non-Con, Asphyxia

John awoke to a numbing state of grogginess and an overwhelming amount of white.

Everything was entirely too bright, and he clenched his eyes repeatedly to bring things into focus. While he attempted to reclaim his vision, memories of what had happened (concern, trust, betrayal, anger, dread) startled him into movement. John jerked against his straps, and that's when his vision finally cleared. He was tied securely to a bed in what looked like either a bleached prison or an abandoned psychiatric room. John swiveled his head as much as he could, finding two cameras pointed directly at him with the red lights blinking.

John narrowed his eyes in the direction of the closest one, situated next to the only door. Honestly, the only way he could tell a door even existed was the faint outline in the white paint. What John wanted to do was spit out some rather unkind words about Sherlock and an adventurously placed cactus, but he refrained. He was sure it would be wasted breath, even if the cameras did transmit sound. Once again he pulled at the bonds, straining against them in earnest. He certainly wouldn't fault himself for trying.

John was quite certain these were the real deal, not the knock-offs you bought for fun at a sex shop. John heaved out a frustrated sigh, and slammed his head back against the mattress. He then viciously berated himself for the resulting waves of nausea. The drugs weren't entirely out of his system then, fantastic. Guess he would just have to lay here and wait for the steady migraine to pass. Thank god he didn't need to use the loo just yet.

As John laid back with thoughts of England, he contemplated why he would be here in the first place. Thinking of where he was would get him nowhere. While the barrenness of his prison could be duplicated anywhere, the door was definitely something at least a little high tech. Or maybe it was just made to look that way. Like he said, pointless to wonder where he was. Why he was here was a little more manageable.

John wracked his brain for anything that could help him. He tried thinking of meeting a Holmes he could have pissed off earlier in life. But no, he would remember a name like that. To say nothing of how much he would've remembered a man like Sherlock for as long as he lived. Probably shouldn't dwell on Sherlock right now. John's furious blood pressure levels may kill him. Maybe this tied in to Afghanistan somehow? Was this a terrorist cell inside of London that kidnapped and tortured veterans for information? That was definitely a sobering thought.

But that didn't make much sense either. If this was a terrorist cell, they had way too many resources to be wasted on one broken army doctor. John hadn't even been assigned particularly confidential cases, and any information about his division would be either old news or changed by now. So John had no idea where he was or even why he was here. And his nose itched. Wonderful. John cursed his luck while valiantly avoiding the dark thoughts of what could possibly come next if he didn't have a discernible use. As if on cue, his door slid open to reveal Sherlock in all of his long trench-coat and dark curls glory.

"Ah, it's good to see you're awake John." Sherlock said, offering a small smile. Inwardly, Sherlock was cursing himself. He had hoped for a few more minutes of unconsciousness so he could be the first thing that John saw in his new home. Sherlock would have to settle for the recordings again. If it wouldn't be incredibly inconvenient, Sherlock would be near John constantly, so he could never miss important moments like these again.

Sherlock's response was a menacing glare. It certainly helped him understand why John had been a captain. A mere glance at that look would have an entire platoon falling in line. Sherlock's smile was slightly more genuine this time. To think he'd be cowed by a facial expression was amusing. He went across the room and dragged the only chair to the left side of John's bed. He sat down, crossing his legs at the ankles. John's expression hadn't changed the entire time. The look created interesting folds in his forehead that Sherlock longed to touch. Sherlock would work on the distance issue later, for now he just wanted to observe.

Several minutes of silence permeated the room. Sherlock hoped the tension would make John uncomfortable, but instead it only seemed to make him bored. John clearly saw that his glare would get him as far as his words would, so he turned his head to the side. The least he could do was pretend his captor wasn't even in the room with him. As soon as John looked away from him, Sherlock spoke to grab his attention again.

"Have you figured out anything yet?" Sherlock added a condescending tone to the last word and John predictably looked back at him. So, John wasn't entirely different from others in that he didn't like having his intelligence belittled. Still, data was data, and he wanted to provoke a conversation. Anything John did was more information that could be potentially exploited at a later date.

The glare was back in full force and John uttered a terse "Yeah, I've figured out you're a massive wanker. That you're completely bonkers, and if anyone ever tried to replicate a monument to how much of a bastard you are, they would run out of resources on the first day." John expected a frown, a retort, hell a slap or something. He definitely did not expect his kidnapper to start smiling at him. And by the cold sliver of dread curling in his gut, it was not a very nice smile.

Oh, glorious John. Wonderful, spit on the wound on the face of danger and rub salt in it, John. This was turning out to be so much fun.

"Oh John, you really have no idea why you're here do you?" Sherlock sneered. He stood from the chair, placed both hands on either side of John's head, and leaned in minutely. "Let me lay to rest any sort of theory you have spinning around in that head. You're here because of me. You're here for me. Because I want you, because you fascinate me, you're here in this cell. And you will never leave, until I know that you won't run from me."

Sherlock delighted in the fear that played through John's eyes. Having John scared may not be a strategic move, but he needed John to know what was going to happen. That any attempt to escape would be fruitless. John needed to know how deeply obsessive and dedicated Sherlock was. This way John could learn to accept it, and perhaps, if things went accordingly, even appreciate it.

John had no response and Sherlock didn't blame him. What is the response to someone who has easily claimed your freedom and has no intention on giving it back? Watching John's eyes widen, his nostrils flare and his brow pull back was wonderful to document. But it was nothing compared to the small gasp that made John's lips part. Sherlock was quite abruptly aware of how close he was. How easily he could reach out and touch. And well, now was as good a time as any to ease John into the sexual part of their relationship.

John immediately saw the flash of lust cross Sherlock's eyes, and he tensed up in his bonds. "Don't." John said, putting as much warning he could into the one word. Sherlock smirked at him. "You really aren't in a position to be making demands John." Sherlock's eyes perused John's body, wondering where to start.

His tongue darted out to his lips when he saw the small inch of skin peeking out around John's stomach. The ratted t-shirt had hiked up around the nylon strap, separated from the sweatpants that made up John's nightclothes. Slowly, Sherlock's right hand trailed downwards to the exposed skin. He marveled at the sensation of the soft cotton and the harsh nylon. He touched the soft skin of John's abdomen, hiking up the shirt even further until his entire belly was exposed.

John shifted again in his restraints, his voice slightly cracked where his fear overrode his pride. "Sherlock, I mean it, stop." Sherlock didn't listen to John's pleas. Bringing his head and arm down to a better angle, he leaned in to the soft skin of John's exposed stomach, and began lavishing it with his mouth. Licks, nips, bites, it didn't matter as long as Sherlock was able to taste every bit of this new area of John. It was glorious, like feasting on something delectable without ever worrying about it running out. John's squirming only sweetened the dish.

And oh, how John squirmed. He jerked against his restraints, attempting to pull away from the sensation of having Sherlock's mouth ravishing such a sensitive part of him. He hissed when Sherlock's nips became bites, and gave a strangled cry when those bites turned into sucks. Sherlock noticed John was practically shaking with restraint from crying out, but his doctor's body was betraying him. As evidenced from the slight bulge near Sherlock's chin.

Sherlock congratulated himself on starting his pet's training with pleasure. John, being a soldier, would respond defiantly to pain. And would forever associate his captivity in a negative aspect. But being brought to an incoherent mess of need by his captor? John could never be prepared for something like that. Sherlock smirked against John's damp skin, mind swimming from the many avenues he could take this. Time to let John know the point of this exercise.

Sherlock looked up from his prone position on John's belly. The doctor's face was twisted to the side, eyes screwed shut against the small pinpricks of desire from Sherlock's mouth. His hands were in fists by his sides, and John's blatant refusal against the pleasure brought to him was the most arousing sight Sherlock had seen. John visibly relaxed when Sherlock stopped his onslaught, but he didn't open his eyes.

"John, look at me." Sherlock softly demanded.

"Piss off." John ground out, eyes still stubbornly closed.

Sherlock's hand flashed to John's chin. He gripped John's face painfully, twisting it until it was facing him. John tensed, but still didn't open his eyes. "John, I want you to look at me when I'm addressing you." Sherlock's voice was still soft, but it held a steely edge of warning. When he still couldn't see John's beautiful blue depths, his voice became sharper.

"I can pry your eyelids open with tape, or you can look at me of your own volition. Either way, I will have your full attention John." Since Sherlock held the bottom of John's jaw, he could feel the teeth inside his mouth clench in frustration. Slowly, John opened his eyes, glaring intensely.

"Much better." Sherlock smiled, as his fingers danced over John's navel in reward. John's eyes narrowed in fury, but didn't close. Watching those eyes glow with suppressed rage was acutely like watching a hurricane from a beach. Sherlock stamped down his lust for the time being, and continued talking. "You should know John, that I care for you very deeply. I don't want to cause you discomfort, but I will if you force me to. That being said, I also will not take anything from you that you do not willingly give."

John gave a snort of disbelief, but didn't take his eyes off of Sherlock. He was morbidly curious to see where this was going. "This," Sherlock said, "also includes your pleasure. If you do not want it, then I will not give it to you."

"Good," John barked "now get the hell away from me."

Sherlock smirked, "That isn't quite how it works John. Touching you brings me pleasure, and I won't deny myself simply because you ask. You are here solely to please me. I don't have to grant the same right to you. I will only do that if you ask for it."

John looked mildly perplexed. This certainly called for a demonstration. Without saying anything, Sherlock laid himself beside John. The blonde strained against his bonds to the opposite side, attempting to put a bit of distance between them. John's stomach was still exposed to the cold air, and Sherlock began tracing patterns on the skin with his right hand. His left arm supported his weight behind John's head. In fascination he watched John's muscles flinch away from the touch Sherlock inflicted. John faced the wall, resolutely ignoring the ticklish sensations.

When John's neck was exposed, Sherlock immediately latched on and began sucking. John attempted to twist his head back to get Sherlock off, but a hand painfully gripping his hair stopped him. "I don't want this." John spoke furiously, eyes now forced to stare at the wall. "I don't want you to touch me so get the fuck off of me."

Sherlock's fingers were done tracing the bite marks left over on John's stomach. Now, they drew further down, edging the top of his sweatpants. John noticed, and sucked in air. John bit back a cry when Sherlock bit down savagely hard at the junction of his neck and shoulder, leaving an angry red mark. "I told you John," Sherlock rumbled into John's neck, "touching you brings me pleasure. And you will never deny me pleasure." Sherlock pressed into John's side, emphasizing the erection that tented his trousers. John flinched and shut his eyes.

They immediately flew open again when Sherlock completely drew John's pants down to his thighs. Sherlock delighted in the correct assumption that John didn't wear underwear to bed. John's uncut cock lay flaccid between his thighs. Apparently their brief discussion had softened whatever arousal Sherlock had brought on. This annoyed Sherlock, but he didn't fault John for it. Soon, his doctor would relish in the attentions he would give him. Brief ideas about sexual conditioning crossed his mind, but Sherlock went back to admiring John's cock. It was surrounded by soft pubic hair that was slightly lighter than the hairs on his head. With reverence, Sherlock's long fingers traced the skin of his shaft.

John sucked in a breath, but did nothing else. Sherlock just lightly traced the soft skin, preserving this moment forever in his hard drive. Reluctantly, John could feel heat pooling in his groin at Sherlock's teasing touches. Sherlock took his eyes from his own hand to watch John's face. Still gripping his hair, Sherlock turned John to get a better view. John's eyes were closed, denying himself with the stubbornness that was just as much a part of John as his bone structure. When John's member had slightly stiffened, Sherlock gripped it blindly. Slowly, he began stroking.

John shuddered, his lips pressed tight together. Sherlock's palm danced over the crown of John's cock, smearing the slight evidence of precome. With every upward twist he would dance over the head, and come back to a firm grip at the base. Sherlock wished he could watch his hand performing these wonderful movements, but John's expressions were an adequate replacement. Every spasm and tic was practically a handbook to Sherlock at what gave John the most pleasure while being stroked.

Sherlock glanced down at his moving hand, loving the way John's flesh hardened increasingly in his grip. Sherlock took the time to notice that he was grinding against John's side. His erection was pressed uncomfortably between his pants zipper and the nylon, but he didn't move to release himself. Right now, John was more important.

Said army doctor was losing himself in the pleasure. He shivered when Sherlock lightly brushed the underside of his cock, and a startled whine escaped when Sherlock lightly traced John's scrotum. The precome was now leaking steadily onto Sherlock's palm. Sherlock realized with glee that John was edging very close to orgasm. Sherlock leaned in close to John's ear, and began speaking in a low rumble that further twisted the heat in John's belly.

"This is what I mean John. Watching you writhe, moan and whimper is delightful to me. But I don't have to finish it. I could wank off right here on top of you and leave. You would ache for me to finish since you aren't able to make yourself come. I own you now John. Your pleasure is mine to control. And I don't give away anything unless I'm asked nicely." He stroked a little faster, and his grip became slightly firmer. Looking down, Sherlock saw that John's toes were curled and his hands hadn't stopped clenching at nothing.

He would have worried if John could even here him past his daze, but John's eyes opened in realization and he looked at Sherlock in shock. Sherlock continued talking without letting up on his speed or his grip. "That's right John. I want you to beg. Ask me to let you come and I will. Or I can stop right now." He did stop then to demonstrate, and John couldn't hold back the small groan. His hips twitched of their own accord, attempting to get back the last needed bit of friction.

John squirmed for a moment, then stopped himself. He inhaled deeply while shutting his eyes. When he opened them, defiance shone through past the fog of lust. "Piss. Off." Would John ever cease to surprise him? Sherlock dearly hoped not.

Sherlock grinned, pleased to continue the game for another time. "Very well." Sherlock replied. Sherlock lifted his leg over John's body to straddle him. He placed himself out of reach of John's prick, not wanting to give him friction. When Sherlock unzipped himself, John began tugging away in earnest. "Get the fuck off of me you disgust-" his tirade was cut short when Sherlock placed a hand over John's mouth and nose.

John's eyes widened, and he twisted his head to try and get in air. Sherlock talked calmly above him. "Talking really isn't necessary for this John. I don't need to hear you degrade me right now and useless chatter really puts me off." Sherlock gasped at the end, finally able to touch his throbbing cock. John yelled against Sherlock's hand, attempting to bring to attention that he was cutting off air supply.

Fear finally coursed through him when he noticed Sherlock's aroused flush at watching him struggle. "The asphyxia is needed for now John. I'm going to untie you when I leave, and I imagine you'll need to use the bathroom soon." Sherlock's voice became steadily breathier. His pale eyes were blown to almost black as he stroked himself, watching John lose consciousness once more. "If you try to wank yourself off without my permission, you will not like the consequences."

John twitched, instincts begging him for air. His lungs burned and his head felt swollen. Before blacking out, Sherlock leaned down between them and kissed him through the hand covering his mouth. Watching John slip below, pressing against him and feeling the last gasp for breath on his palm, was too much and Sherlock shuddered through his climax. His seed spilled over John's chest and stomach. Sherlock rubbed it into John's skin while removing his hand from John's mouth. Sherlock's forehead touched John's, panting for stability.

This close, Sherlock ached to kiss John, but he refrained. That would be for another time when John was awake. For when he could kiss John without fear of being bitten for it. Sherlock stuffed himself back in his trousers, and unbuckled John. He pulled up John's pants, and left grinning. John was forever proving to be a fascinating addition to his life. Sherlock couldn't wait for tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

After his session with John, Sherlock felt relaxed and sated enough to sleep in his rooms.

He would be happier sleeping closer to John, even in the same bed, which he had never desired from his previous partners. He reminded himself that John was just a quick elevator ride away. Before long, John would eagerly join him in bed if it made Sherlock happy. Those hopeful thoughts drifted him away into the deepest sleep he'd had in ages.

Sherlock didn't wake up until late the next morning, the sound of his phone breaking him from the spell of sleep. Blearily, Sherlock looked at the text message. "I wish to talk to you about your doctor friend. -MH"

Sherlock grinned. So, either Mycroft still couldn't locate his headquarters, or, the much more likely route, his brother found his security as impeccable as always. They certainly had the motivation to be at their very best when it came to their bosses' place of work. Sherlock and Jim both had made the last incident an example of what happened to those who tried to seek employment elsewhere. The spy and the incompetents who had let him slip by had been begging for death by the end.

Sherlock quickly typed out his response. "Lunch, Launceston Place, try anything and I'll launch the North Korean project." That was a bit of an empty threat, he'd already set that into motion. No reason for Mycroft to know that.

He sent the text, then got himself ready. A quick shower, a meager breakfast of tea and biscuits sent up by the help, and a few checks with his assassins made up a good portion of his morning. Sherlock actually did get to see the live feed of John waking up this time, which was delightful. He blessed the man who invented the zoom feature on cameras. To the casual observer, watching John would have been quite boring.

He used the toilet almost immediately upon waking, as Sherlock had predicted. Then he appeared to wander aimlessly about his cell, but of course Sherlock knew better. He was measuring, seeing how much fighting room he had to work with if a rush of people entered. He inspected the door, but of course he wouldn't find any avenue of escape there. It was almost hermetically sealed, while small vents let in filtered oxygen.

John was quickly bored with his surroundings, and began doing crunches in determination. Sherlock watched him fight off his solitary anxiety with something akin to adoration. He had wondered if John would try and disobey him, but it appeared John at least understood he was being watched. An interesting theory formed, maybe it wasn't the cameras that put him off. Perhaps John's pride absolutely forbade him from touching himself to the thought of Sherlock binding him down and forcibly bringing him pleasure? That sounded like his doctor.

Sherlock's smile could be mistaken for gentle if no one was privy to the thoughts running through his head. Glancing at the time, he scowled, hating his brother for cutting into his time watching John. Oh, but ribbing Mycroft for the absolute failure that was his rescue attempt would be entertaining.

Sherlock swept into the restaurant, coat billowing behind him. There weren't many patrons, since the busiest rush was dinner. Seated by the window was Mycroft, pointedly flipping open his pocket-watch. Sherlock of course noted that Mycroft had sat facing the door. Apparently they weren't quite back to trusting each other from stabbing one another in the back. 'What ever would Mummy say?' Sherlock drily thought.

Sherlock flopped down into his seat, not bothering to look over the menu. Minutes passed in tense silence, both brothers waiting for the other to start speaking. Everything was always a contest between the two of them. The wait staff were practically beside themselves, too cowed to approach the table. They could feel the unspoken challenge permeate the air around the pair. Sherlock drummed his fingers across the tabletop, sighing and flickering his eyes over the window. The ice in the water glasses clinked delicately. Mycroft's last snap of the watch was the final straw.

Sherlock practically growled in impatience and waved one of the waiters over. The man rushed over, almost tripping in his haste. "Y-yes, sir? What can I get for you?"

"I'll have nothing, while this useless tub of lard will have every pastry you carry on your dessert cart." Sherlock spat, not once looking at the hapless man. Mycroft's expression soured momentarily, but turned to the shocked waiter with a plastic smile.

"Two lunch specials, if you please. No desserts, and water will be fine." The man nodded gratefully and went to deliver the order. Mycroft turned back to his unruly brother, who still hadn't ceased staring out the window.

"The location wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that the owner owes you and Mr. Moriarty quite a large sum in debts would it?" Mycroft asked, sneeringly genial.

"Not debts, blackmail." Sherlock bit out every word.

"Surely not the drug charges? Seems a bit trivial for you." Sherlock slammed his hand on the table, finally glaring menacingly at his brother. He leaned forward, his voice refusing to rise from a dangerous timbre. "Stop wasting our time Mycroft. You wanted to talk about him, so talk. What do you want?"

Mycroft's face remained unimpressed, while the other guests quickly looked back at their meals when Sherlock turned his piercing gaze upon them. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, irritated. Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly, and Sherlock resumed trying to burn his brother alive through sheer willpower.

"What I want, Sherlock, is for you to stop this pointless coveting. Dr. John Watson is a very rare man, and he doesn't deserve to be made into a sociopath's toy."

Sherlock's lip twisted into a black snarl, but he let his brother say his piece. "I had hoped to reach him in time when I became aware of your...advances, but I was too late. So now I am asking you to release him. I will not waste my time appealing to your humanity, but I will offer you, for lack of a more delicate word, a refund." Mycroft stopped talking when their food was delivered hot to their table.

Two large portions of expensive seafood pasta, as well as delicately arranged salads were laid before them. When the servers had quickly fled, Sherlock pushed his dishes to the side while Mycroft picked at his salad. "Go on then." Sherlock drawled, "What can you possibly offer me in place of my new toy?" He spat out the last word. Mycroft's eyebrow raised, assessing this new development of Sherlock's view on the doctor.

"There isn't much I can offer you that you already can't achieve or steal on your own, except of course, for the true communications to the Egyptian resistance." Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, touching his fingertips together. This was proving to be a compelling conversation.

"Release your...friend, and I'll give you untempered access. In addition, I will cut off all of my contacts. Of course, I will be starting afresh, but you should have no interference from my new people for approximately a month."

Mycroft sat still in his chair, waiting for his brother's response. Sherlock twirled his fork around the pasta, which had long gone cold. "Tell me Mycroft, why are you so desperate to get him back? He wasn't even on your radar before I showed up. Now here you are, offering me dozens of lives and the safety of a country in exchange for one man. Why?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, and didn't answer. Sherlock glared at him, his eyes searching. When the answer clicked in his mind, Sherlock smirked. "Ah, I see. He may not have been on your watch list, but he does have a very useful set of skills. Skills that would only fan the flames of my progress. Not exactly easy to have an assassin get the drop on me if I have a trained fighter by my side, is it?"

Mycroft sighed, and rolled his eyes. Clearly, this conversation was not going to end in a favorable outcome for him. Sherlock saw what he had now. He had the means for a very useful ally, someone who would stand beside him and protect him from any threat. But only if Sherlock was very careful and didn't screw it up by having the doctor hate him. And Sherlock was always careful when it mattered. Sherlock saw his brother concede defeat, and tossed the fork into the air, catching it each time by the handle.

Smiling, Sherlock asked one final question. "You should have been a bit clearer with your explanation of me Mycroft. What exactly did you tell John that had him so desperately running into my arms?"

Seething, Mycroft said, "When I had the grace of Dr. Watson's company, I told him that you were a volatile and dangerous man, dear brother. That he should accept my offering of employment before you brought harm to him, and possibly everyone he knows. Apparently, he thought I was being threatening."

Sherlock snorted. "Can't see where he got that impression. You do know that you also just accurately described a firecracker, not a sociopath gone criminal lord?"

Mycroft hummed his consent. "Yes, perhaps I had been a bit lenient with my words. There are far more accurate and much more vulgar pieces of language to describe you." Sherlock's teeth shown white from his mouth, and he rose from the table.

"I do hope I never see you again Mycroft. Take care, and I wouldn't eat the pasta if I were you. I think the waiter switched what plate I was supposed to eat." Sherlock said, his back to his brother. Mycroft let the fork full of carbohydrates go. The cold fury around him practically boiled, and he lamented the second biggest failure in his life. The first of course, had been allowing his little brother to ever discover Jim Moriarty in the first place.


	7. Chapter 7

This time, when John wakes up, he knows exactly where he is, and he's furious about it.

His rage is tampered by the fact that his bladder feels close to bursting. He uses the toilet, and absolutely refuses to feel grateful about the curtain giving him a modicum of privacy. John uses the tiny sink to try and wash off his rank smell, but there isn't any soap.

Next, he looks at the cameras, but doesn't glare at them. He doesn't want to give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him react to his surroundings. He measures the cell out in strides next, hopeful that he isn't being too obvious about it. Once he's done, he openly inspects the door. He's not sure what he's expecting, perhaps a rush of guards to force him away? But nothing happens, and John can see why no one would bother shooing him away from his only avenue of escape. The door is completely smooth, no where to suggest there had ever been a handle on this side. John's not sure how it opens, but it's definitely not from his side.

He sighs through his nose, and glances around at the bare room again. He's not going back to the hated bed, and he has no use for the aluminum chair. He flips the seat around, lays down and begins his exercises. He hadn't had a need to do these when he returned to London. Now, he's as far into a battle as he's going to get in this urban land. John does crunches, push-ups and even does a small jog around his cell. When he gets thirsty, he drinks from the sink. Eventually, the boredom of his room is pressing down on him, even with the physical exertion he intended for a distraction.

An unwanted thought creeps in of what he used to do as a distraction when he was bored out of his mind in his flat. He waves the thought away, and the nasty voice calls him a coward for not jerking off. Which is actually rather funny, so John grins briefly. He tells himself that it isn't cowardly. First, it's smart. There are cameras all over the room, and Sherlock obviously has no qualms about molesting him, so what would happen if he made the psychopath angry?. John definitely doesn't want to find out.

Second, he just really really really doesn't want to give Sherlock the pleasure. He denied himself from orgasm because the bastard thought he could control him. He's not going to do anything in front of that man that could be perceived as weak. he may be Sherlock's prisoner. But he certainly doesn't have to be a congenial prisoner. After running around the room for what must be the second hundredth time, John feels the hollow pain of hunger.

He has no way of processing the time, so it could still be early morning or late in the afternoon. Either way, he hasn't eaten since, Jesus, possibly two days ago. When he had dinner and went to bed before a certain perverted maniac rang his doorbell. He's done with his workout, he can't exhaust his energy if he's already hungry. He slumps into the chair, and peels some of the more soaked bits of clothes away from his skin. He'd rather change into something fresh, but that's obviously not going to happen. An indeterminable amount of time passes, and John starts to worry.

Did Sherlock forget about him? How long has he been down here? Is this some way to make him more compliant? John shudders at the thought. For a moment he tries to convince himself that that's not the case, but he can't be sure can he? How far is Sherlock willing to go to make him...what? A sex doll?

John gets up to pace, ignoring the persistent pains in his stomach. Has anyone even noticed that he's disappeared? He never talked to his neighbors. Harry is his best bet, but she won't know he's gone until she tries to get him to pick her up from a pub again. He's alone here. John shakes his head. So what? He's been alone before. In Afghanistan he had his troops, sure, but he was a Captain. And leaders don't have someone holding their hand when things go to shit. That's why they're leaders. If no one's coming for him, he'll damn well carve a path out himself.

More pacing. More time passes.Is this what he's meant to do now? Wait for Sherlock to return so he can please him? Well, fuck that. John's about to do something rash, like tear down the infernal blinking cameras, when the door opens just enough for an unseen hand to slip in a plate. It's warm and smells heavenly. A chicken breast on a bed of chips. Finger food, so he's not given any cutlery. Which is perfectly alright for John.

He picks up the plate, and carries it over to his desk. He holds himself back, even though the hunger has made itself known tenfold now that food is near. He smells the divine aroma, and can't detect anything off about it. He tears open the chicken, looking for any pills, though he doubts anyone would be that obvious about it. Finding nothing, John dines.

He's almost licked his plate clean when he realizes something's wrong. When he gets up to get a drink, he fumbles, and catches himself on the table. His vision narrows, and he concentrates to keep himself awake. The last thing he wants right now is to go unconscious again. He tries to put weight on his legs again, but it won't work. He feels like his legs are cut off from the rest of his body. The sensation is so believable that he stupidly looks down at his own legs to make sure they're attached. That's why he doesn't see Sherlock come in, or see him wheeling in something large.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this begins my addiction to cliffhangers.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Non-Con, Bondage, Orgasm Denial, Fingering

"Perhaps the dosage of diazepam was a tad excessive." muses Sherlock. John quickly turns towards his captor's voice, and nearly falls on his face in the process. His hands and knees are on the floor now, and his vision is swimming again. He hears approaching footsteps, and tries to move back. He's stopped by the leg of the table, and he feels frustratingly helpless with the relaxant coursing through his body. Sherlock's smiling in his face now, and he moves to punch it off.

He knows he's failed somehow when Sherlock laughs at him and pulls him to his feet. Sherlock is leading John, almost entirely supporting his weight, though he doesn't seem to mind. Distantly, John thinks Sherlock must be wearing really really expensive cologne to smell this good. That thought dies a violent and fiery death. To make up for it, John attempts to move out of Sherlock's hold again, but is easily stopped.

"It a pointless effort to struggle John. You might as well go along and enjoy what's about to happen." John's about to slur a few words of angry protests, but he cuts off when he sees what's in the room.

It looks like it's been taken directly out of a BDSM catalog. Especially with the white walls and bright lighting. John can see where he's supposed to go, what he's supposed to do. The top and middle part of it is heavily cushioned, meant to support his midsection. It slopes down on either end, though the place where his arms are going to be strapped in are slightly higher, so he isn't choking himself when he's lying face down on the thing. The leg portions are placed far apart from one another, clearly meant for him to be on display, in every sense of the word. Sherlock's taken it off of the luggage trolley, so the heavy looking furniture will stay put. No matter what kind of rigorous activity it goes through.

John stops walking and attempts to backpedal, pitiful though it is to try. He shakes his head, murmuring no over and over again. Not this. God, he's not ready. Not that he would be, not that anyone ever is but, Jesus. He thought he would at least go down fighting before something like this happened. Not end up as helpless as a toddler. The drug is apparently lowering his inhibitions too, because he's shaking now. He hates his stupid body almost as much as he hates Sherlock.

Then his hate grows to loathing when Sherlock leans down to whisper in his ear. "Shhh, John. Dear John, don't worry. This will be enjoyable, as long as you want it to be." He grins, John can feel it on the curve of his ear, and the criminal bites gently before guiding him forward again.

Again, John slurs out more protests, which are again ignored. John spots something, a bag maybe, beside the thing before they both stop. John is turned to fully face Sherlock, and he glares into those mercury eyes as much as he can. Sherlock doesn't react this time, just watches John's face. And he's tracing John's lips with his thumb before John even notices that the hand has moved from his shoulder. The scrutiny would be disconcerting, but John's far past being concerned about long lasting staring contests.

His eyes glance back over to the monstrosity, head almost lolling with his movement. Then he lets out a sharp cry when Sherlock's gripping his head by the hair again, forcing him to look back at Sherlock. "You shouldn't ever look away from me John. I enjoy watching your reactions, watching you squirm. If I'm giving you my attention, I expect the same."

John has a smarmy retort for that, he knows he does, but it leaves his head as quickly as it enters it. He's too distracted now by the cold air that suddenly brushes his naked and sweaty skin.

It takes him several unforgivable seconds to realize Sherlock is undressing him. When he's done with this realization, Sherlock's lifting up his shirt. He tries pulling it back down again, but his hands are batted away like he's a kitten. Sherlock tugs off the shirt, and tosses it away with a faint twist of his lip in disgust. "I'm bringing you new clothes once we're done. These are absolutely filthy."

John shakes his head. He can't articulate why he doesn't want new clothes. But the explanation slugs through his drugged mind. The pajamas were the only thing he had to remind him of his previous life. A boring life it might have been, but it was his. He was free. And Sherlock is going to take away the only link he had to that. His thoughts are dragged back to his current situation, when Sherlock delicately runs his fingers across his scar.

It's a mottled thing, an angry red against the pale skin that wasn't touched by Afghan sun. John once had the poetic thought that it resembled a flower. Now, he just sees it as raised skin and deadened nerves. John only registers Sherlock's touch because he's pressing insistently against the center of the scar. John hisses at the pain and Sherlock looks sharply back at him.

At that moment, John makes a promise. He can't deny Sherlock much in this state, but he can deny him noise. Come what may, he'll be fucking silent as the grave just to get a one up on the bastard. Sherlock sees the defiance, the challenge, and grins. Sherlock always loves a game, and John is proving to be the best competitor he's had in ages.

Sherlock has another indulgent look at the scar, and mutters reluctantly, "Another time." When Sherlock looks back at John, eyes still angry but helplessly hazy, Sherlock tamps down the urge to kiss once more. To consume and know John purely through his lips. Later, he promises himself. Save it for later. Sherlock pushes John gently back from the pants still pooled around his feet. The upset in his balance causes John to hit the side of the furniture with his back. And John notices that there's definitely a bag there, because his ankles can feel the burlap.

Then Sherlock's caging him in with hands on either side, and he concentrates on not flinching away. With slow hands, Sherlock maps out John's hips. He presses his thumbs into the protruding bones, scratches lightly over the delicate skin. He's not looking at John, just watching his hands. When a fingernail digs a little too deeply, Sherlock expects the flinch, but nothing else happens. John doesn't make a sound. Sherlock looks back at his face, eyebrows raised in inquiry and surprise. John is pushing at Sherlock's arms, but he's still not making any noise.

Sherlock's full lips pull back, pleased. Oh, so that's how John wants to play the game? Fine by him. In a move that's meant to disorient him, Sherlock spins John around, forcing him over the middle of the padding in the wrong direction. John starts struggling again, and it's a bit like watching a fish flop on shore. He's still not uttering a word, but his breath has picked up in distress.

Sherlock roughly maneuvers John, and the pull of the leather on John's damp skin echoes in the room. Before John has a chance to move away, his arms are strapped down by buckles. John tugs, but the leather holds fast. He hasn't even got an inch of give. His legs are closed, but his efforts are infuriatingly dismissed. Sherlock easily pries his thighs apart, buckling them to their separate stands.

John is only tall enough for the balls of his feet to rest on the floor. His genitals are flaccid and hanging down in the space of the small "Y" where the legs meet the center. He feels so fucking exposed and vulnerable. John hides his face in the crux of his shoulder, shame coloring his cheeks. He jerks when Sherlock runs his hand across his bottom.

"Remarkable, every inch of you." Sherlock says, affection in his voice. John prays to every god in existence for Sherlock to drop dead from spontaneous combustion. His breath catches in his throat when Sherlock leans down and licks a long line from the base of his spine to the top. Sherlock sucks a bit, leaving another mark at the exact center on the back of John's neck. Sherlock really enjoys licking John. He can taste John, feel his essence on his tongue. The thrilling thought of giving John a blowjob runs through his head. Having John pulsing in his mouth, swallowing something made solely from his doctor. Tonight he has other plans.

He whispers sinfully in John's ear. "I'm going to fuck you." John doesn't whimper, doesn't protest. But the fear rolls off of him in waves, and his hands are clenched so tightly that he may cut into skin. "This won't be painful for you John, I swear it. But as I said yesterday, you won't receive an orgasm unless you ask for it."

His response is John finally pulling his head away from his arm. He's staring at the wall now, resolute and ever silent. Sherlock had really wanted to see John's expressions, but the stool had been the best option he had. Borrowing from Jim was unpleasant, but he didn't have anything on hand to suit his purposes. The promise of next time was quickly becoming his mantra.

With another quick nip at John's shoulder, Sherlock's ready to begin. He reaches down to the burlap sack, and pulls out the small bottle of lube. Sherlock moves to kneel between John's splayed legs. John's concentrating on keeping his breath even. Resolutely ignoring whatever Sherlock's planning.

Keeping the lube in one hand, Sherlock reaches with his free hand for John's soft cock. John jerks again, and bites his own lip to keep silent. Sherlock's hands are almost searing hot against his clammy skin. Despite John's horror of the situation, he starts filling with blood. He hasn't climaxed, and his body remembers the denied pleasure from yesterday. Anger at his own body colors his cheeks again, but he does nothing else.

Sherlock's not even stroking him, just teasingly touching his cock and balls until he's half hard. Sherlock stops his ministrations, and John has half a second to be relieved before he hears the bag being shifted. The sound stops, so Sherlock's found what he was looking for. John doesn't have time to wonder what it was, he's too focused on the sound of the bottle of lube being uncapped. Sherlock's fingers are back, slick and warm, stroking a little more insistently. While most of it lubes up the hand bringing pleasure to John's cock, some of it is traced back to his hole. There, it is rubbed in gently.

John shifts in his bindings, his control slipping a little bit to get away from the sensation. The drugs are still present in his body, making his thoughts sluggish, mistaking his forced arousal for actual pleasure. John shakes his head, and concentrates on a spot on the wall in front of him. He tries to distance himself from his body, thinking of something, anything, else. Once again, his mind is forced back into his body when Sherlock digs two of his nails into the round cheek of his arse. John's almost proud of how quickly he stamped down any vocal disagreements.

"John", the warning in Sherlock's voice rumbles through John's back, "if you try to distract yourself again, I'll get the riding crop." John has a foolish urge to dare Sherlock to make good on his threats. Instead, John slumps in concession. He won't willingly ask for pain, but he still refuses to make any noise. Sherlock goes back to stroking him, and John's near to fully hard.

John carefully counts his inhales and exhales. This is just a body, everything that's happening is a biological reaction. He can do this, he can endure this. His thoughts screech to a halt when Sherlock gently eases a long digit into him. The moan that threatens to spill from John's throat is stopped at the last second. John shivers from the effort and sudden rush of arousal.

John can practically hear Sherlock smirking when he says "You see? I told you this would be pleasurable for you." John clenches his jaw hard against his retort. It takes a monumental amount of self control to stop the keening in his throat when Sherlock adds a second finger. Sherlock is still stroking him, and John feels so hard he could burst. He feels the stirrings of an orgasm, still a long way off, but imminent. If he's quiet, John greedily thinks, maybe he can climax before Sherlock can notice. Sherlock stops stroking his cock, and he thinks that Sherlock's just bored with genital stimulation. But when the cock ring slides over his erection, firmly squeezing the base, John nearly weeps.

Sherlock gently eases him open with both of his fingers, sliding in and out of his hole. If this were a normal situation, if John were free, he'd be a panting and moaning mess. Right now, he's only got the panting bit down. With delicate precision, Sherlock finds John's prostate. He brushes over the gland with his fingers, at first he's teasing. This, John can tolerate. The gentle strokes are maddening, and he's covered in a fine layer of sweat, but he still hasn't broken the promise to himself.

Then Sherlock's thrusting with intent, and he's hitting the prostate dead on. John breaks, and his pant for breath turns sharply into a moan. John can't cut off his next moan. Or the next. Or the next. Sherlock slathers more lube onto his fingers with his free hand, and continues to drive John insane. When he adds a third finger, John whines through his nose.

His fingers are clutching the ends of the armrests. John can feel the strain on his muscles from his extended position on his toes. Small tremors are shooting over his body, and his mouth is dry either from the drugs or the panting. He feels so full, while being so exposed, he feels fucking filthy and debauched, and he has never been so turned on in his life. Before this ends, John thinks, he'll have Sherlock's head on a fucking spike.

A few more deft twists of his fingers, and Sherlock removes his digits. He stands up, undressing himself completely. For some reason, it only feels fair. "Remember John", Sherlock says, just as breathless as his 'lover',"you only have to ask, and I will let you orgasm."

Sherlock is fully naked, erection proud and straining. If John could see it, he would be reluctantly grateful about all of the preparation Sherlock put him through. Sherlock lines himself up to John, and gently presses forward. John's head arches back, and he almost stops breathing.

The tiny doctor part of him is screaming at the absence of a condom and the consequences of unsafe sex. The slightly larger soldier part of him is planning how to break Sherlock's bones in several places once the drug's worn off. But the rest of John is struck dumb with horror that this is actually happening to him.

Sherlock's cock disappears by centimeters. He's reverent in the way John's body is clenched around him, swallowing him. He's hard pressed to decide which is better, the sight of John enveloping him, or the sensation of it. When he's fully bottomed out, Sherlock stops. He wants to close his eyes, to lose himself in the raw feeling. But he adamantly refuses, watching John shiver and twitch beneath him helplessly. God, reality is always better than the fantasy.

When Sherlock gets his breath back, he starts moving. Shallow thrusts, ones that send sharp notes of pleasure through John. Sherlock's cock is only brushing his prostate. And God, even with all of the lube and prepping, Sherlock is still pressed against his walls. If Sherlock's movements are meant to drive him mad, then John considers it a job well accomplished. His body is long past the point of decency. He's writhing against the buckles. Not to get away, but to get more friction, more movement wherever he can find it.

Sherlock increases his speed, hitting John's prostate with more ruthlessness. He's gripping John's hips tightly, Sherlock quickly takes a mental note to document the bruises later. His thrusts pick up in speed, driving his cock deep into John. The sound of their heavy breathing and the slap of flesh permeates the room. The cool air feels heavenly against overheated skin. The smell of lube and sex is not nearly as disgusting as Sherlock remembers. It's a musk he would bottle, if it didn't mean that others would know what coupling with John smelled like. Sherlock leans down, biting John's shoulder, continuing to piston.

John's head is hanging low between the bars. He's realized that the stimulation will do nothing to help him reach climax while he's still got the damn cock ring on. John can feel his reason slipping away. He's so close, so damned close and hard he just wants to come. The endless stroking of his prostate is driving him round the bend. John's choking on his cries, and he can't even feel Sherlock leaving another love bite. He's being carried away on a wave of pleasure so large it's almost pain. John's resolve is cracking. He's so close to begging for release, his mouth is open, ready to crack the words past the groans and whimpers.

An intervention of some kind happens, because Sherlock thrusts harshly a few more times, then shudders violently. A warm sensation fills John, and just like that, the arousal crashes down into a bottomless well of disgust. Sherlock has a few post coital thrusts, and pulls out of John. He doesn't move from his prone position of John's back. Sherlock is perfectly happy to just breathe in John for now. It's when John starts shifting uncomfortably that Sherlock moves away. With a lingering caress on John's back, Sherlock dresses again just as quickly.

He moves to face John, kneeling and looking at him through his dilated blue eyes. His face is flushed from arousal, and he's unknowingly licking his lips. His eyes focus on Sherlock, and he is able to manage a half-heated glare. Sherlock grins, patting John on the cheek. "That was marvelous John. I thank you." He glances conspiratorially between John's legs. "Oh, I don't suppose there's anything you want to ask of me before I go?" John's eyes flash and promise murder, and Sherlock shivers in delight. This is turning out better than he could have ever hoped for.

"I'm afraid that the contents of the bag will have to remain a mystery for another time John. I had a whole evening planned, but I got a little carried away." Sherlock actually does look contrite that it hadn't gone the way he'd thought it would. Oh well, he'll always have opportunities now, won't he?

Sherlock unbuckles John from the stool, and gently lowers him beside it. John's can't help but shiver when Sherlock slowly removes the cock ring from his throbbing dick. The drugs are still active, so John is unable to put up much of a fight. As Sherlock carries away John's soiled clothes and the duffel bag, he leaves with a warning. "Remember John, you will not like the consequences if you try to masturbate." The door seals behind Sherlock, and John is alone, but he certainly does not feel safe.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Emotional Trauma

John's shaking from the drugs and the fucking. When he shifts his legs, he feels something wet between his thighs. He chokes on air when he realizes it's Sherlock's release. John closes his eyes. Breathes through his nose. Inhale. Exhale. Once more. Inhale. Exhale. He's a little steadier when he opens his eyes again, but he shifts to the side, away from the wet spot.

John thinks about standing, trekking it to the bed. He's fucking exhausted, and he just wants to forget everything for a little while. But not only do his bones still feel gummy, his only cot still has the damned restraints attached to them. John slinks down onto the floor, naked as the day he was born. The concrete is freezing against his skin, but John tries to ignore it. He's still disregarding his doctor voice saying that he's going to be a giant sore knot when he wakes up. John's slept through worse.

John falls into a fitful sleep, ignoring the ache and dampness in his backside, and the bruises starting to form along his arms. When John dreams, it's of blistering winds, blinding sun, and the roar of gunfire and the scent of blood. He jerks awake to the hated color of white. John suddenly misses his forgotten reality so much he nearly cries.

Turns out his doctor voice was right as usual. He creaks as he stands up. He's uncomfortably sticky, and John really doesn't want to remember why. But the memory of a shuddering body pinning his sharpens in his mind anyway. John swallows his bile. He slinks to the sink, his throat tightening when his steps are awkward. In his peripheral he spots the blinking red light in his prison.

As John pushes open the curtain, he glares at the piece of technology. Maybe he can move the chair or table over and rip the thing out by its wires. It's a really stupid thing to do, but he's getting really close to not giving a damn. John whips the curtain closed, and moves to wash himself. It does as little as it did yesterday.

As John scrapes away the semen crusted to his thighs, he desperately wishes for soap. Or lye. Preferably acid. Stop it, he tells himself. Self harm isn't needed here. He's not stuck in his flat being chased to madness by his own boredom. He's a prisoner, he can get out of this. He has a physical enemy that he can fight against.

**Yeah, because we've seen how well you can match him in a fight** , whispers the Voice in his head. The last time he had heard it, he'd been staring at the Browning in his lap before Harry drunk dialed him.

_Shut up_ John responds to his own mind, _he's drugged me twice. Hardly a fucking even match. He'll slip up, then I'll get him._

**Yeah, but do you want to?** John stops scrubbing with his nails. **Admit it,** the Voice continues **you liked it.**

_Shut up_ , John repeats, going back to cleaning himself.

**You liked him manhandling you. Restraining you. Taking control.**

_Shut. Up. That's not true._

**Isn't it? Weren't you glad that someone was finally taking the time and attention to fuck you? To make you gag for it?** The Voice was getting louder now.

_That was disgust._

**Oh really? I didn't know moaning, panting and nearly begging to be allowed to come was the new term for disgust then. I'd love to see what happens when you're absolutely revolted by him.**

_I said shut up._

**He took his time too, made it feel good. Haven't had a fuck that nice in years.**

_He fucking raped me. Shut. UP._

**Yes, he did. And you know what? I'll bet, if you asked nicely, he'll do it again. And he'll finally get you to beg this time.**

"SHUT UP!" John yelled, smashing his fist against the wall. It wasn't enough. He did it again. And again. And again. His knuckles cracked, leaving a scarlet streak on the perfect wall. He switched to his non dominant hand, repeating the action until the wounds were a match. John sobbed, slumping down to his knees, clutching his head with bloody hands. His skin stings, and he pries his eyes open long enough to see that his fingernails have left bloody scratches all over his body. His ass is probably the worst. Judging by how the steady ache on the inside of him is replaced by the harsh burning across the skin of his bottom.

A hard keen leaves his throat, and John rocks slightly back and forth. He understands that this is a pathetic position, that he should glue himself back together. He should be the British soldier he's been since he played army games with Harry. But for now, behind the privacy of a flimsy curtain, he's going to be John Watson.


	10. Chapter 10

John doesn't know how long it takes to piece himself back together.

When he's done, he stands up, feeling even stiffer than he was before. His nerves are fighting amongst themselves, trying to tell him which part of him hurts more. John leans onto the sink, and breathes a few times. The Voice is gone for now, and John is always grateful for small mercies. He washes the blood from his knuckles, then moves to the scratches on his body.

When he's done he feels, well, not fully human, but a step is a step. John opens the curtain, and considers pulling it down to make a crude toga. He really doesn't want to walk around naked and cold, but then what about privacy? This little niche is the only place he has where he's not being recorded. His decision is made for him when he spots the folded white clothes in front of the door.

John is more than a little disturbed that he didn't hear the door open. When had that happened? When he'd been a defenseless little ball on the floor? When he'd been having a mental breakdown? John pushes those thoughts away. It doesn't matter now. He marches to the clothes and inspects the little pile. The clothes are bleached white and uniform. Something you'd find in a mental ward. There's a bar of soap on top, and a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal beside the laundry that he hadn't noticed.

John dons the clothes immediately, then shovels down the meal. He's worried, of course, of being drugged again. But what's the point? He either drugs himself or starves. And he needs to get as much energy as he can if he wants any chance of escaping here. When he's done, he grabs the soap and goes back to the curtained area. It couldn't hurt to actually get the stink of Sherlock and approximately two days of filth off of him.

***

The soap had been a really hard decision on Sherlock's part. He quite prefers John covered in his spunk. It's the only time John is anywhere close to being completely covered and owned by Sherlock. He suspects that John would rather walk around naked than wear anything that might have been worn by Sherlock. Tattooing is an option, but Sherlock doesn't know how to practice that particular skill. And the thought of another person inking John is completely out of the question.

So while the thought of John covered in his essence, unable to completely wash it all away, is extremely appealing, Sherlock had begrudgingly given John the soap. He needs to start instilling a sense of gratefulness in John, according to his research. Also the reason for the unmolested breakfast. When Sherlock had opened the door, he'd been met with heavy silence. John was obviously in the bathroom, but the absolute lack of noise was odd. The only assurance he had that John was even alive was the sound of his breathing and the outline of his hunched form behind the curtain.

Ah, coping then. Sherlock thought. A very delicate process, so Sherlock had left his items in front of the door and left without a word. Sherlock hadn't had time to look at the footage of John from this morning yet. When he was done, Sherlock was quite irate. Even with the static quality of the noise, Sherlock had heard John shout out his protests. He saw John' silhouette slump to the floor after his outburst of violence.

After watching this, Sherlock had felt a rush of triumph. John was breaking, he was getting close to the molding stage. John's time in imprisonment matched up with when Stockholm Syndrome started, though Sherlock had only spent a fraction of that time actually interacting. But obviously both physical encounters were enough to wear down anyone's defenses.

Sherlock skipped ahead a bit, to where he delivered his little peace offering. Sherlock cursed himself a little bit. It was stupid of him to not at least put a hidden camera in the bathroom. He desperately wished to see what it was like to watch John fight against himself, but what was done was done. A few minutes passed and John continued to stay behind the curtain. Sherlock started considering taking that thing down if John was going to abuse the privilege.

But then his doctor walked out, and Sherlock felt a pang of concern when he noticed the scratches on John's body and the broken skin on his knuckles. John shouldn't do this to himself. John's pain was as much Sherlock's to control as his pleasure. If John ever felt discomfort, it was to be caused by Sherlock and no one else. His thoughts started to derail when he noticed something odd about his soldier.

Sherlock rewound the footage and played it again. This time, when John strode out of the bathroom, Sherlock paid no attention to his wounds. It took him a few minutes to deduce what exactly was niggling at the back of his mind. The answer came once John came out washed from his second bath and proceeded to stretch for his exercises.

John wasn't cracking.

Or, no, that wasn't right. The stiff gait and straight back was more than just soreness from sleeping on concrete. John was affected, obviously, but that was the extent of it. Maybe it just ran deeper? Maybe John kept his angst so well suppressed that not even Sherlock could see it? Sherlock highly doubted that. What seemed far more likely was that John was just that steadfast.

John just coped that well with stresses, with pent up adrenaline. He was able to absorb it all use it to help strengthen him, not tear him down. John had his episode in the bathroom, yes, but Sherlock suspected that was all the thought John was going to put into the matter.

This was simultaneously amazing and really, really annoying. Oh, John would crumble eventually. Given enough time and enough pressure, any person breaks. But that was the problem. Eventually. Sherlock could be more than patient if the project was worth it. And John was certainly worth the effort. But how long was too long? If Sherlock keeps up with the way he's been going on, he'll utterly destroy John and there won't be any parts left to begin reconstruction.

Sherlock pushes away from his laptop and paces his room. What to do? This was completely out of his field of expertise. All the extensive studies in the world couldn't help him find the delicate balance between a willing prisoner and a sex slave. John was already defying studies with his "too good for this world" behavior. What other techniques could John utterly disregard? Will what breaks another person make John more defiant? Will John only be able to see him as his captor and rapist, not a potential lover? How is Sherlock supposed to know if he's doing this right when what he's doing is utterly amoral? Sherlock only had one option left. He hangs his head back and sighs through his nose, dreading what's coming.

Sherlock's going to have to ask Jim for advice.


	11. Chapter 11

It took a little while to hunt Jim down, their complex being as large as it was.Sherlock found him in one of their "interrogation" chambers. He strode into the room, much to the chagrin of one of their guards. It was as white as John's room, with the exception of the rusted and fresh blood that littered the walls and floors. The drain in the center of the room and a gallon of bleach could only do so much. Besides, apparently Jim liked the atmosphere.

Said criminal mastermind was sitting beside the door in the right corner, watching intently. He was as impeccably dressed as ever, with the exception of a small blood spot on his collar. Sherlock would have to point that out to him later. Jim was watching with his arms crossed, an expression of boredom on his face. But of course Sherlock knew better. Jim was never bored when Sebby was "working".

The man was currently beating a victim to a bloody pulp. Sebastian's back was turned to them, and he was dressed in full military fatigues. All they could see was his full sandy blonde head from the back, and his muscular arms as they swung and retreated. The bloody mess of a man was helpless to the onslaught of punches. He was strapped to the chair, head practically snapping back and forth from the force of the blows.

Sherlock stood, impassively watching. He needed Jim's advice, but he respected the man's warning to never be interrupted during his favorite pastime. Though Sherlock really couldn't see the point in these proceedings. He much preferred the delicacy of a knife and the application of advanced techniques. You couldn't even hear the man scream in this state. Just pained grunts. Boring.

Jim gave a sharp whistle twice from his much more comfortable chair. Immediately, Seb stopped and stepped back from the heaving mass of meat. He turned and faced them, hands crossed and held in front of his body, waiting for further instruction. His head was bowed, simply because he had not been given permission to raise it.

Usually, Sherlock would only be slightly intrigued that someone could bend so much to someone's will. Now, he wanted trade secrets. Jim gave a lingering look of appreciation to his pet, then turned his attention to Sherlock. Suddenly, it was just the two of them having a conversation, even with others in the room. To outsiders, it would be like watching two demons retreat back to their plane of existence. Leaving behind the creatures that had no hope of understanding them or reaching their level. Nothing existed now but their continuous mind games and banter.

"This is a surprise, usually you can't be bothered to come support Sebby in his performances." Jim's eyes glittered, and Sherlock highly suspected that Jim already knew why he was here.

"I need your advice Jim."

"Ooohhh, today's just full of surprises! Do I get a puppy next?" Jim crooned, clearly finding pleasure in dragging this out.

"My...project is proving to be more...unpredictable than I had anticipated."

Jim actually did look surprised then, "The great Sherlock Holmes? Blindsided by his new little pet?" Jim wasn't actually being mocking, he was genuinely befuddled.

Sherlock grit his teeth, feeling unnaturally defensive. "He isn't like all of the 'normals' Jim, he defies expectations so much he should be a subspecies of the human race. I'm having...difficulties, in discerning how to bend him to me."

Jim raised a mocking eyebrow, "You have shagged him right? Please tell me you're not saving that for a 'special day'?" He made air quotes and groaned.

"Don't be obvious Jim, it's too far below you."

"Yes, yes, just checking," Moriarty waved "How many times?"

"Just the once, but on the first day we had physical intimacy."

Jim nodded, then swayed his head a tad in realization, "Wait a tick, have you only been visiting him to fuck him?"

Sherlock frowned, "I thought that was rather the point Jim. He has to get used to the idea of having sex with me. The quickest way to do that is to over-saturate the experience."

Jim sighed, like he was dealing with an extremely dull child. "Yes, but at least tell me you, I don't know, cuddle or pet him or something afterwards."

Sherlock just stood there, stunned. Did he what?

Jim groaned again. "For God's sake Sherlock, no wonder it isn't working. You need to introduce some lovin' after the fuckin'!"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that it would be detrimental to his asking for help if he choked Moriarty.

"I mean really Sherly, how's little Johnny going to know you care if all you use him for is a shag?"

Sherlock didn't need to comment on Jim knowing his doctor's name. Of course he would have already looked John up after getting his face on the CCTV camera.

"He should know," Sherlock protested, "I've already told him I care."

"Yes, Sherly, and Johnny-boy is definitely going to take your word for it." Jim rolled his eyes at Sherlock.

Sherlock's lips thinned, conceding the point. Physical affection then, show John that he cares and he'll form a bond. Noted, documented, saved.

Curious, Sherlock asked, "Is that what you did for Sebastian?"

Jim's eyebrows raised, before he broke down into jittery snickers. "Oh, oh god Sherly, no. Not at all." Sebastian doesn't move at all, but Sherlock catches something like a tension in his shoulders.

Sherlock turns back to Jim in suspicion, "Then how do you know if-"

"Because Sherly", Jim interrupts, face suddenly intense, "I know people. I know how they work better than you do. And I know you. I know that you don't want what Sebby and I have. You want to keep your doctor from shattering, yes?"

Sherlock gave a small nod.

"Well, as unique as you make him out to be, he'll have one of two options with you. He can either learn to accept his new life, and make the most out of his relationship with you. Or, he can die. Don't give me that look darling, I'm not being threatening. That's just what he'll do. By his own means, he'll make sure that he never has to submit to you. Now, Johnny's a soldier, and I doubt that he really wants to confront death, but desperate times and what not. So, it's very simple. Make sure that being with you seems like the better option." Jim smiled, happy to have made his point.

Sherlock was begrudgingly glad that he'd decided to consult Jim about this. Everything seemed startlingly clear. Sherlock decided to humor Jim a bit, as a thank you.

"So why didn't you do the same thing with Sebastian?"

A look of fondness came over Jim's expression, and he leaned back in his chair as he looked at his pet.

"Do you know what his fellow comrades called Sebby? His infamous nickname?"

Sherlock shook his head, knowing Jim's point would be made soon.

"The Tiger." Jim let the name linger on his tongue, rolling the 'r'. "Now who doesn't want to keep such a wild creature for a pet? But, what's the saying? You can never trust the tameness of a beast?" Jim's eyes sharpened, watching Seb's still posture. "That's true, of course, until you remove the claws and fangs."

Suddenly, Seb's stillness became something he was making an effort to control. Sherlock made a small hum of acknowledgement, but didn't comment. This was Jim's way, not his. Eventually, John would learn to love him. He gave an appreciative nod to Jim, then left, plans already forming in his head. He heard Jim say "Finish up quickly here kitten, Sherlock's visit has rekindled some memories of mine."


	12. Chapter 12

John's bored. He's really, really fucking bored.

 

He's done his exercises three times, he's ran backwards. He's bathed himself so many times he's practically raw. The sweat from his workout had irritated the scratches to an unbearable extent, and John had let that distract him for a bit. Then he began naming off all of the bones in the human body, starting with the toes and working his way up. When he was done with that, he tried recalling the separate sections of the human brain and what function each served. Neurology had never been his strong suite. John had tried counting the tiles on the walls, but staring at the spotless white seemed to make things worse.

The only break from the monotony had been the delivery of his lunch (sandwich and crisps) and dinner (soup). Both times the door had only been opened long enough for the food to be slipped through. John had gotten a glimpse of the hallway outside, and had not been shocked to see the outline of a man standing passive with a very large gun. Some other guard had put the food on the floor. So, two guards, who probably changed shifts, more than likely armed to the teeth. His avenues of escape were looking very bleak indeed.

At least forming escape plans kept his brain busy. Even if they started resembling the ridiculous escape attempts of Bond films. John had no idea where he would get a carton of C-4. Or how to fashion a bomb out of chewing gum and a battery. A grin forced its way onto his face at the thought. John could do nothing else in his cell, exhausted as he was with physical activity.

He considered sleeping on the chair in the room. Probably slightly better than the floor, and he couldn't be paid to sleep on that damned bed. Thoughts of sleep were chased from his mind when one of the armed guards rushed in, brandishing his...taser?

John felt a little insulted. He considered himself at least threatening enough for a gun. His bemused expression didn't amuse the guard, who ordered him to face the wall. John turned slowly. A taser might not be as serious a weapon as he was due, but getting electrified was not on his to-do list. As John focused on the hated walls, he concentrated on hearing what was happening. It sounded like several other people were in his cell, carrying something large by the grunts of effort.

Dread pooled in John's stomach. The furniture from before was still in his room, so what the hell was being carted in that was so damn heavy? John heard footsteps enter and leave, and something else was being wheeled in. John tried tamping down the fear that wove through his body. He wished the guard had let him face forward with his hands raised. At least then he would know what he was in store for.

A few minutes passed, and John nearly jumped when he heard the sound of a generator being turned on. He recognized the noise, the telltale whirring of fans and electricity, from when he had been in Afghanistan. His camp didn't have the luxury, but the noise was sometimes found in the villages, where they had individual sources instead of power plants.

This one sounded smaller, meant for upper class families who took it with them on "camping trips". So, electricity was going to be involved tonight. John felt his skin break into a cold sweat. Sherlock's voice broke past his anxiety, to replace it with defiant anger. "Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all."

John heard several pairs of boots exit his cell. Everything was quiet now except for the whirr of machinery. "You can turn around now John," Sherlock said, sounding amused.

John tensed, ready to fight tooth and nail from whatever was in store for him. It was Sherlock's mistake to let the guards leave. He wasn't even drugged. He would take down this pompous bean-pole if it was the last thing he did. Which was very likely, what with the guards just outside the door and all. John took in a steadying breath, and turned.

And was greeted with the sight of a meager entertainment center. What in actual hell? It was a wheeled TV stand, the kind used during lazy school days. A DVD player rested on the shelf below the television, but that was it. It was all plugged in to the generator, and was pushed up against the wall. A black loveseat faced the television, its back was to the bed and the stool. Obviously John was meant to place such troubling things out of his mind while he watched a movie with his kidnapper.

John choked down the hysterical giggle of relief and disbelief. He had already known that Sherlock was insane, but this, this defied description.

Sherlock studied John's reaction, then went towards the television. He turned it on, then inserted the DVD that John hadn't had a chance to look at. Grabbing the remote, he sat down on the loveseat and waited for the thing to load. John hadn't moved an inch. He thought his mouth might have opened and closed several times, but he couldn't be sure.

Sherlock glances back at him and frowns. "Won't you come sit?" And John does choke out a laugh at that. It sounds a little brittle to him.

"Um, wow, there are not enough ways for me to say no." Sherlock's head tilts to the side.

"Why not? It's your favorite movie." And sure fucking enough, the title screen to Casino Royale is looping on the TV. John doesn't really find it surprising that Sherlock knows this little fact about him. Which is somewhat worrying.

"Yeah, thanks," John's voice suggests anything besides,"but I think I'll just stand here plotting your violent and painful death." John's infuriated when Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Very ambitious of you. When you're done with exhausting all of your options, come join me." Sherlock pulls something out of his coat, a tiny device with a button. When Sherlock turns it, the lights dim down almost entirely, and John's kind of reeling from the sudden change. He hadn't realized how long he'd been living in constant light until just now.

Sherlock hits play and leans back to watch. Though John very much doubts Sherlock is going to pay a lick of attention to the screen. Somehow, Sherlock doesn't strike him as an Bond fan. Or an anything fan.

In a fit of petulant defiance, John goes over to the unbolted steel chair in the room, and turns it to face the corner. He sits down, broadcasting his intentions for the evening. The only light is coming from the television, displaying shifting shadows over his cell walls. He's forced to admit that the noises of violence from the movie are a nice change from the monotonous sound of his own breathing. He's watched the movie enough times to know when the half hour mark rolls around. At this point, he does actually want to watch the movie. And his back is hurting from the unyielding position of the chair.

Thoughts of how comfortable the couch must be appear unbidden in his mind. He disregards those entirely, but decides to give in to the temptation of looking at the television. Quietly, John turns the chair around to watch. From his position, Sherlock shouldn't be able to see that he's given in. But that doesn't stop John from thinking that Sherlock already knows.

John watches the whole movie like this, shifting every once in a while to get into a semi-better position. Neither one of them says a single word. When the credits roll, Sherlock turns off the television, and brings the lights back on. John's blinking his vision back to normal when Sherlock is striding over to him.

From one thought to the next, John's standing. He's got his feet spread apart, ready to shift position from defensive to offensive at a moment's notice. Sherlock stops walking to raise a mocking eyebrow at him. He reaches into his coat, and John's about to rush him, when the criminal brings out a can of antibacterial cream.

"Hold out your hands." Sherlock commands, and John can feel his face pull back into a disbelieving grin.

"How about you leave it here and fuck off?" John's holding out his hand like Sherlock will actually comply. Both of them find that rather funny. Sherlock takes another step forward, and John tenses again, his hands balling into fists. Hope springs in John, maybe this is the chance he's been waiting for, until Sherlock opens his mouth again.

"You do realize that the cameras haven't been turned off right?" Sherlock makes a pointed look at one of them, the red light blinking at the pair. "The guards outside have a small handheld that has a live feed. If you attempt anything, they will restrain you without killing you, as per their instructions. And then you will wish you were dead when I'm done." Sherlock says all of this without breaking eye contact with John.

John feels a chill go down his spine and scowls at the ground. He steps forward, and holds out his hands palm down. Sherlock nods at his cooperation, and pulls him towards the couch. John thinks about resisting again, but a look from Sherlock stops any attempt. They sit down, and Sherlock unscrews the can while John stares at the TV. Sherlock makes a pointed cough, and John just holds out his right hand without breaking his view.

Sherlock liberally applies the ointment to both of John's hands, incredibly thorough while being gentle. John hissed a little bit at the beginning, but now the scratches burn a lot less. Sherlock moves up to John's arms, applying it where John had cleaned too roughly this morning. The long fingers dancing over his skin brings back memories of those same digits over his cock. John breathes through his nose, and ignores the small twitch in his traitorous groin.

When Sherlock moves up to his neck, John tilts his head back for better access. The smooth sensation over his stinging skin makes John unwillingly closes his eyes. Distantly, he thinks about how easy it would be for Sherlock to close his hands and choke him to death. John doesn't dare to dwell on why that doesn't bother him.

When Sherlock pulls his hands away, John thinks he's done. Until Sherlock says, "Lay on your stomach and pull down your pants."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Explicit Masturbation

"What?" John's eyes shoot open, and he stares at Sherlock. Who is just looking at him impassively. "Fuck no, I'm not doing that." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, I've seen the footage before you put on the clothes. I know that your rectum is the area that you've wounded the most, and you're much more likely to get an infection if it isn't treated. So stop being childish and let me handle it."

Furious indignation twisted in John's gut. Who exactly was to blame for his 'rectum' being scratched to bits? Before John can even curl his fist, Sherlock's gripping his wrist tightly. He forces John close, and murmurs dangerously. "The cameras are still rolling John. Don't pretend to be an idiot." It's a lie. The only access to the live feed is from his laptop. He's the only one allowed to see John like this. Ever.

John clenches his jaw. Furious blue stares into impassive ice, before John sighs through his teeth. Without preamble, John shucks his trousers down enough to rest past the curve of his buttocks. He leans forward on the arm rest, both arms tucked under his head. Sherlock has easy access to him now, and John is concentrating incredibly hard on keeping that little tidbit out of his mind.

Without warning, Sherlock parts him and begins applying the ointment. The cold is a shock, and John flinches. The thought filters through of the guards outside, watching this. Making sure he's playing the docile little prisoner while he's being fondled for his wounds. John grits his teeth and buries his face deeper into his arms. He's so lost in self-loathing he nearly misses what Sherlock's telling him.

"I am sorry about this John, what it's led to," John's momentarily confused about what exactly he means before he keeps going "you shouldn't ever bring yourself harm for what we do John. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

And oh, that's enough to pull John out of his 'cold shoulder' routine. "I'm not ashamed of it," John bites "I'm just disgusted." **Are you really?** whispers the Voice. John tells it to go fuck off.

"Regardless of what emotion you feel John, it's unwarranted, I assure you. What we have can be enjoyable for you, I promise." He says this while never stopping his application of the ointment. The stinging is receding, and John's body involuntarily relaxes at the soothing sensation of the cream. Well, most of his body is relaxing. Another part of him is still responding to human touch, no matter where it comes from.

John bite out, "Yeah, I'll just stick to wanting to bash your skull in with my bare hands."

Sherlock doesn't respond. As he massages the cream, John still feels himself harden. He hisses through his teeth, wishing it was all over. Then, just like that, it is. Sherlock's fingers are no longer brushing over him, they're pulling up his trousers. John's stunned, then shakes himself. He should be _relieved_ not _stunned_.

"I'll be back tomorrow. I need to reapply for a few days."

"Just leave it here," John protests. He stands up from the couch to watch Sherlock leave.

"You can't accurately reach yourself that far back," Sherlock responds, his excuse so reasonable that John almost buys it for a nanosecond, "besides, I enjoy seeing you. No matter the reason." Sherlock gives a small smile, then leaves. When the door closes behind him, John is entirely at a loss for words.

 

John doesn't really want to admit to himself that they've established a routine. It's really only been two days, and a routine implies that he's become comfortable enough with Sherlock to allow this to go on. Which he hasn't, at all. He still dreams of watching the monster's light go out. (He sleeps on the loveseat now, it's small, but he can deal with that.) John just understands that he doesn't really have an option. With the guards outside and Sherlock's intense promise, he has no choice but to be obedient. For now anyway.

And Sherlock hasn't even done anything but apply the ointment. After dinner, Sherlock will come in with a different movie (always one of John's favorites). They'll watch it like they did the first night. John in the corner, Sherlock on the couch, neither of them saying a word. Once it's done, John will come over without being asked, and sit still while Sherlock applies the cream. The whole time he does this, Sherlock will go on about how much more enjoyable their 'relationship' would be if John just gave in. Sometimes John has a retort, but mostly he sits in stony silence.

Sherlock's fingers are always gentle and soothing. John still hasn't masturbated, and it's starting to take its toll. Every time Sherlock move to his arse, John can feel his prick stirring. And when he pulls down his pants, Sherlock thankfully doesn't comment. Now it's the third time that Sherlock has come in, and John feels like he's ready to burst. The tall bastard has left already, and John could've sworn that the man had been smirking when he'd left.

John's sitting on the couch, trying to get his breathing under control. It was just touches, Jesus, he's not a pre-teen getting hard from a brisk wind anymore. But it doesn't help. His body is itching from a whole new kind of burn now. John wants to exercise it off, but the cream is making his body sticky, and he doesn't want to sweat off the medicine. The stickiness is just making it worse now that he's brought it to light. It clings to his skin and his clothes, feeling like Sherlock's touches. It brings memory of the lube back, from the night that seems like years ago now.

The memory of John stretched, filled, and aching is too much. Now he's hard. John gives a small groan and thumps his head back against the couch. He feels like his balls are about to burst if he doesn't come soon. Knowing medical certainties doesn't help with a body's urges, John's found out. John remembers Sherlock's warning about consequences.

And then John's resolve to wank one out becomes steely. Consequences? Fuck it. It's enough of a hassle being in here. He can take what Sherlock can dish out. Hell, at this point, physical pain would be preferable over the constant nagging worry that something is going to happen. John is a man of action. He'll take his pain when he wants it, thank you.

John moves to the bathroom. He may be disobeying his kidnapper, but he's not going to be _that_ blatant about it. John uses some of the leftover cream as lubricant and begins stroking. He tries really hard to think of that beautiful blonde nurse from the surgery. Of the tiny mole by her mouth and her rounded and full breasts. Instead, John thinks of himself on the stool that still hasn't been removed from his room. He thinks of the unerring accuracy of long, pale fingers. Of a deep and growling voice at his ear, promising remarkable pleasure if he would only give in. Let it happen. Let go.

John comes into the toilet. He feels a little better in body, but his soul feels tarnished. He flushes the evidence away and cleans up. In his mind, a mantra plays over and over again. _Need to get out. Need to get out. Need to get out._

John's not sure what he's expecting when he comes out of the bathroom. Maybe for Sherlock to be sitting on the couch, giving him another smart arse smirk? He does know that Sherlock isn't omniscient, though it bloody well feels like it sometimes.

John sits, waiting for the ointment to dry so he can do his routine. He tries looking as inconspicuous as possible, which the only real way to do that in here is to look bored. Mission accomplished. Again, John wonders why he's even worried.

He knows Sherlock is a genius. He's not ashamed of admitting that. But the man can't honestly know when John was having a wank just by looking at him. The ointment dries, and John does his stretches. As he's jogging around the room, John can't help but feel a certain level of triumph. Many times he'd been warned against masturbating, yet here he is. Whole and sane, no roll of thunder on the horizon.

John berates himself for not trying this sooner. Sure, the wank material had been different from what he'd wanted, but John can always work around that. Hell, as long as he's careful about it, he can masturbate freely without Sherlock being the wiser. John's sure that his fantasy only went haywire because he'd been starved for physical intimacy. Once he can get his routine back, he'll be thinking about beautiful women in no time.

As John's jogging around the room, he thinks about what movie Sherlock will bring in tomorrow. He's forced to admit that those are the only times when his boredom is temporarily alleviated. John knows Sherlock doesn't like the movies, so if they're solely for his benefit, he's going to bloody well enjoy them. The last movie he'd brought in hadn't even been on his shelves at his flat, yet somehow the psychopath had known it was still a favorite of his. John thinks he really doesn't want to know how he figured it out.

John stumbles a bit, suddenly dizzy. He's near the damned stool, and he has no choice but to lean on it. His vision is hazy and John can feel panic creeping in. He thinks back, but he hasn't eaten or drank anything since Sherlock's been in here. Maybe it is just a head rush? But John can hear something now, a whistling?

He looks around, trying to find the source. There, above his head. The ventilation shaft is releasing a steady hissing sound.

Fuck.

John doesn't know of a gas that isn't lethal, and immediately he crouches down. It's too late already, he knows. Whatever it is, it's probably filled the room by now. He covers his mouth with his hand all the same. He feels his body slumping to the ground, but it's a distant sensation. His mind is sluggish, his lids are heavy. John's instincts kick in, and his body kicks at nothing. His mind is screaming at him to move, to get away from the unknown source of danger. But once again, he's helpless.

All John can do is lie there. He prays one more time, the same plea he uttered on desert sand eons ago. _Please God, let me live._ Then he blacks out.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Non-Con, Orgasm Denial/Forced, Fingering

John doesn't really wake up so much as become aware. He's aware that his mouth is so dry and thick it could be stuffed with cotton. He's aware that no matter how many times he blinks, his world is still black. He's aware that he's on the couch in his room, since it's the only thing that has a backrest and comfortable cushions. He's also aware that he's naked, since he can feel said cushions on his bare arse.

John shifts, panic starting to set in. _Well,_ he thinks wryly to himself, _I'm not dead._ He attempts to move his arms, but they're tied to his knees. He would lower his legs, but some sort of bar is in the way. His legs are forced to be splayed wide, and his hands keep him curled slightly. The only way he's comfortable is thanks to the couch. He's spread, open and vulnerable. John can feel more heat rush to his cheeks when he hears Sherlock speak.

"I did warn you John, several times." John can hear him move, and suddenly a cold hand is caressing the inside of his thigh. "That's what I want you to remember after this. That if you had only asked to come by my hand, none of this would have happened."

Anger forces his words before John can stop them. "Piss off already, you don't own me." The same hand is gripping his throat now, pressing him into the couch. John can't breathe.

"I've already told you John, I do own you. And you are going to learn that lesson by tonight, or this punishment will continue until you do." John almost can't process the words, but the hand pulls away as soon as Sherlock's done with his declaration.

Everything is silent, and John doesn't dare to speak. He almost thinks that Sherlock's left him alone, since John can only hear his own measured breaths. Then both of Sherlock's hands are back, and this time they're caressing his nipples. John flinches back from the unexpected pleasure.

Sherlock talks as he lightly brushes the nubs, "The gas, if you were wondering, was a sleeping gas. My own invention." Sherlock delivers a sudden twist, and John hisses.

"No such thing," John clenches out, "only in, ah, movies." He berates himself for the erotic slip up, but Sherlock doesn't comment on it.

"I told you, my own invention. Came to me after a failed attempt with it killed the terrorists and the hostages. Quite a sum they paid, to make sure it did the job." John unwillingly feels a bit of respect. That Sherlock can apparently do more than just kidnap, rape and steal. Until he talks again, still fondling his nipples.

"Don't have a misplaced sense of sentiment John. The money went towards the terrorists they tried to stop in the first place. Have to respect clients and all."

John's about to give an angry retort, but Sherlock harshly pulls on the sensitive nubs and John cries out. "Hm," Sherlock says, "apparently you're not that adverse to rough play." John breathes, and he can feel his cock beginning to stiffen. John really hates biology.

John's breath shorts out when he feels Sherlock's mouth wrap around him. Apparently there's no rhyme or reason to the stimulation tonight. John's more than a little worried about that. Sherlock's tongue curls wickedly around the crown of his dick, and John groans.

To Sherlock, this is a glorious night. He had been disappointed that John had disobeyed him, but hardly surprised. Now though, he gets to enjoy John at leisure. Tonight, this is going to be all about Sherlock, all about getting John to learn his place. He tastes just as wonderful as Sherlock had predicted. Generic soap, musk and something purely John filling his nostrils and tongue. Sherlock bobs his head again, and feels the cock throb against his tongue. Sherlock nearly groans in shared pleasure.

Sherlock licks at John's dick, savoring it. He curls his lips around the head and makes a small suction. John's head hits the back of the couch. As Sherlock continues this torment, John writhes in his restraints. He can feel the blood being cut off from his wrists every time he clenches into fists. This is nothing like the first time.

The last of the sleeping gas has worn off. There is nothing muffling his sensations, no excuse for the crest of pleasure overtaking his body. It's just him and Sherlock now. And John is forced to enjoy it.

Sherlock's lips leave his dick with a soft pop. John tries getting his breath back under control in the meantime. He hates that he still can't see. There's nothing for him to focus on, nothing to distract him. Sherlock has had his body before, but John fears that he'll have his mind soon enough. John hears the familiar pop from the cap of lube, and he tenses.

"Ah, ah, John," Sherlock admonishes, "I'm going to prepare you like last time, but I won't warn you again. You have to relax." John knows that he's serious. He knows that was probably the only precursor he's going to get for this evening. John's not delusional into thinking that his 'punishment' was only going to be an extended blow job. So he takes a deep breath, and forces his body to go boneless against the cushions.

"Good boy John," Sherlock says, carding dry fingers through his hair. John wants to tense in indignation at that, but he stays pliant. If he's going to survive this, he has to play along for now.

One hand still stays in his hair, while the one dripping in lube presses against his hole. John shudders, but doesn't stiffen. The finger slides inside of him when John breathes on the exhale. They stay like that, with Sherlock's single finger lying still inside of him, until Sherlock moves.

This is also different from last time. That time, Sherlock had been efficient in his preparation. Now, he seems, languorous. The finger brushes inside of his walls, exploring, twisting, brushing. It hasn't even touched his prostate, but John is still panting. With Sherlock's hand in his hair, he can feel those icy eyes greedily watching his reactions. John has no intention of staying silent this time. It might lead to bigger repercussions. Like he said, to survive, he'll play along.

One finger is joined by a second. Now they're going at a slow, leisurely thrust. John squirms, and the hand on his hair tightens minutely.

"You've been greedy John," Sherlock's voice startles John from the blind sensations, "You've taken what you wanted when I've explicitly warned you not to. Now, whatever it is I desire, we're going to do. Even if it drives you around the bend."

John's a little confused. This sounds like one of their 'sessions' only more...prolonged. John's thinking it can't possibly be that easy until the fingers brush against his gland. He moans, arching his neck. The angle makes Sherlock's grip even tighter, but John doesn't care. The long digits hit him over and over again. John's toes curl, and his jaw clenches from pleasure.

He doesn't notice Sherlock's hand leaving his hair until it's wrapped around his slick, hard cock. That hand is as masterful as the other. They're working in tandem to bring him to pieces, and it's working. John can feel his orgasm around the corner. Every twist and thrust edging him closer and closer. He expects to be pulled away. Expects that any moment now, Sherlock will stop and leave him aching. But he doesn't. Sherlock keeps thrusting inside of him, keeps dancing his fingers over his glans.

John's moans are wanton now. He can't seem to stop thrashing. God, this is good, it's glorious and he's so damn _close_. His hands might've gone numb now, he can't tell. He's panting through his nose. The spring in his stomach is taut and with another brush against his prostate, John's coming. He comes with a harsh cry of surprise. He's so caught up in the shock of being allowed to come that he can't even fully appreciate the small wave of pleasure.

He blinks, for all the good it does, and comes back from his small crest. He can hear Sherlock rummaging through something, and dread starts to creep into his heart. That was way too easy. And John starts figuring out why he was allowed that moment of bliss when he hears a switch being turned on. The buzz of the vibrator is never changing and far too loud in the room.

"Next round then, shall we?" Sherlock says, and John thinks that maybe he's in hell.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous Warnings Still Apply, Additional: Painplay/Bloodplay, Toys

The switch clicks off and John is left in silence. Anxiety has him tense all over again, orgasmic bliss forgotten. He jumps when he feels sharp teeth biting into a sensitive thigh. Sherlock is sucking, and John doesn't need his sight to know that there's a fantastic bruise there when he pulls away.

He can feel those dark curls brushing his legs as he leans between his trapped thighs. John's confused about his intentions until he feels that dexterous tongue swirling through the semen left on his stomach.

Sherlock doesn't enjoy that he didn't get to swallow all of it down. That he didn't get to have John's essence pulse down his throat like he's fantasized. But, this is nice. Lapping it up from John's quivering stomach is an apt substitute. Sherlock leans back to watch his work as he brings the vibrator up to John's arsehole. He certainly doesn't need more preparation, still stretched from his fingers.

The device is a simple black and runs on a massive battery. Sherlock's brought spares just in case. He eases in the vibrator, and John's back to gasping again. And god, Sherlock wishes he could be in two places at once. The bar prevents him from swallowing down John's cries like he aches to do.

He wants to explore John's mouth as he cries out from being filled to the brim. He wants John to scream to the heavens from an overload of sensation (pleasure or pain Sherlock doesn't care), but Sherlock will be the only one to ever hear it. Sherlock loves this, loves watching his soldier come apart under his touch. And they've barely even begun.

John knows he's in for a rough night when he can feel his sanity being stripped down this early. He's not breaking, not yet. But he can feel his psyche, well, bending for a lack of a better term. He's got nothing to go on but raw feeling, and right now he feels like every nerve ending he's got was designed for pleasure. His brain just doesn't have any energy or inclination to fight something that feels so good.

Even with all of Sherlock's preparation, the vibrator is large, and John can feel it all along his walls as it pushes in. It doesn't hurt, but it's unyielding, and John really isn't looking forward to when this thing is turned on.

When Sherlock's pushed it all in, he turns it on without so much as a stuttered breath.

John arches so far off the couch Sherlock has to push him back to prevent him from falling.

John's groans are more high-pitched now, almost screams. But not quite, not yet. The new noises he's wrenching from John's lips send a hot pulse to Sherlock's groin. He ignores his arousal in favor of deducing John's expressions from behind the blindfold. Sherlock's gaze at this moment is much like when a passionate entomologist has a rare butterfly pinned alive to the cork board.

Sherlock moves the toy in and out of John, and somehow that's worse. Now, John is stuck between relief and blinding pleasure. His prostate is beyond sensitive, and he can't get hard again. Not this soon. John's just left to writhe, unable to get away from the onslaught. The vibration isn't even that powerful, but if Sherlock decides to turn it up, John's done for.

Sherlock situates the device back against his prostate, and moves to the side of the couch with easy access to John's shoulder wound. His fingers inspect the mottled skin at leisure, dipping and diving into the crests and wrinkles like a spelunker. He traces the perfect circle where the bullet entered, and leans down to press it gently with his lips. The puckered flesh is like a second mouth, and Sherlock snogs it thoroughly.

With his tongue and teeth he leaves little nips. Sherlock memorizes each wrinkle and twist with his tongue until he has to make a separate file in his brain labeled "John's Scar And Textures Therein". John's desperate groans and the muffled buzzing become background noise to the new mapping of an area Sherlock hasn't yet explored. Then, once Sherlock has soaked the wound in his spit, he bites down. Hard.

This time, John does scream.

It's a short one, because John realized he was doing it two seconds after his vocal chords rang out. Sherlock becomes irrationally angry that John is hiding sounds from him at this moment, so he bites harder.

John thrashes desperately, trying to move away. But one of Sherlock's hands lashes out to grip the bar, and John is stuck. John yells again when Sherlock begins moving his jaw with his teeth still gripping skin. Sherlock hadn't anticipated it being this hard. The scar is extremely tough, thanks to poor healing. He's not even sure he can make it bleed without a sharper implement, but, ah, there it is.

Blood leaks into Sherlock's mouth, and he savors it like fine wine. Copper, iron, water, it doesn't taste any different from other blood. Though it really should, since this is his John he's tasting. The amount he gets is very small, but it's enough to satisfy him. Sherlock pulls away, gently dislodging his teeth.

He really hasn't made that much of a wound, the skin is that resistant. There's the clear mark where his teeth were, but the amount of blood oozing out is no more than what would be the result of a shallow paper cut. Sherlock laps it up again, reverent and unapologetic.

John's hissing through his teeth, and unshed tears are soaking through the fabric. God, his shoulder feels like he is getting shot for the first time. It's on fire while being torn to shreds. John worries that he might not even get sensation back after this. And then he smacks his sense of priorities over the head.

This whole time, the vibrator has still been turned on, though it's only with the sudden rush of endorphins that John is made aware of this fact. The pain is somehow lessened while being heightened. He caught between the agony in his shoulder and the ecstasy everywhere else. John feels like he's starting to catch on to the way the game is played tonight.

His punishment is overabundance. Whatever Sherlock wants, he's getting tonight. John's not sure if he can survive the extent of a sociopath's imagination.

Sherlock places a final kiss on the scar, and moves away. He leans back for a second, his mind swimming with information and possibilities. He's had John at his mercy for days. He's taken advantage of this. But this is the first time that Sherlock can feel everything wicked about him pouring over the surface. So far he's been cautious, he's held back. He doesn't need to tonight. And it's a good thing that John can't see the grin that comes from that thought.

With something close to giddiness Sherlock shoves the vibrator firmly up inside of John again. John chokes and struggles. He still can't get hard yet, but that doesn't stop Sherlock from continuing to play with the vibrator. His gray eyes leave an invisible trail over John's body as he watches the reactions to over-stimulation. He thrusts a few more times, watching John shiver and arch. John can't help but release a few sounds, but that's the extent of it. John's not as debauched and desperate as Sherlock wants. He's not fully gone. John hasn't given himself over to sensation, to Sherlock, not quite.

Sherlock intends to remedy that.

He stops thrusting, and the relief from John is palpable. Without warning, he shifts John onto his back on the couch. Now his legs are in the air, and he has to rest his back on the arm to ease the stretch on his shoulders. The pain from the bite mark is brought back into stark relief at this point. John shifts, uncomfortable but unwilling to say anything at all about it.

John knows he's going to suffer tonight. The last thing he's going to do is give the Sherlock the pleasure of begging for it to stop.

Sherlock pulls him forward a bit, so John is centered on the cushions. Now John has no choice at all but to curl upward. He grits his teeth against the pain and breathes through his nose. He's still got the device buzzing happily inside of him, but it's shifted slightly. Now it's edging his prostate, only promising stimulation. The teasing is maddening, but it's better than the constant press on his gland.

He can feel Sherlock leave the couch, and he hears more rummaging. He can't stop the swell of alarm from the sound. There's a dip in the couch above his head, and suddenly Sherlock's fingers are at his cheeks. John considers biting them, but decides against it. He's brought about a sociopath's imagination, he doesn't want his fury on top of that.

"Open your mouth for me John." He says it with total calm. Like he's asking John to pass the sugar.

Defiance and fear wage an equal battle in his chest. His jaw barely clenches before Sherlock continues talking.

"You really don't want me to repeat myself at this point John."

John releases a stream of air from his nose, and opens his mouth.

"Bit wider, please." He hesitates, but John does what he's told. If what he thinks is going to happen is going to happen, then maybe John will bite this time.

Except it isn't soft flesh that enters his mouth, it's hard metal lined with rubber. Two long prongs on the top and bottom that pry apart his teeth and keep his lips from shutting. John tries to close his jaw to prevent what's about to happen, but it's far too late. A strap buckles around his head, and he feels something being screwed on the side. The gag is being ratcheted into place.

John really feels that he should protest now, so he tries to yell, "Stop!"

What ends up coming out is a rather undignified gurgling noise. He can hear Sherlock chuckle above him, and he thrashes again. Sherlock pushes down on his chest, and that brings about a yell of pain when it pulls on his abused shoulder.

"That was to get you to stop squirming. You're going to fall off of the couch like that." When Sherlock's done with his excuse, he moves to the other side of the sofa. Without preamble, he positions the vibrator back to being fully up against John's prostate. John groans helplessly past the gag. It's harder to cut himself off with just his throat.

John's so preoccupied with his stretched jaw and abused arse that he doesn't hear Sherlock unzip his trousers. He does sense a shift though. A charge that flows through the air around him. Sherlock's presence is gone and returned in an instant. He's straddling John's chest, and this time hard flesh is what enters his mouth.

John will be honest, this isn't the first time he's had a prick down his throat. Having a gay sister led to curiosity in his university years, and the adrenaline and pressure of not knowing which day was your last blurred a lot of lines in the army. It is, however, the first time he's been utterly disgusted by it.

It tastes no different from others, perhaps a bit cleaner than army showers could allow. With the blindfold on, he can't tell if it's the largest cock he's had to swallow. He does know that it rests heavily against his tongue. Thanks to the stretching of the gag his lips are unable to wrap around it. Nonetheless, he gags from the intrusion. The result is an amass of spit that leaks from the sides of his mouth.

Sherlock slips out a throaty moan. He got to taste John tonight, and now John is forced to taste him. It's a glorious evening. He fervently wishes he didn't need the gag, but Sherlock is hardly a fool. All of the threats in the world wouldn't have prevented John Watson from the hearty opportunity this would have been. The bars are an unwelcome sensation from the soft, warm heat of John's mouth.

When John tries to pull away, even with the pain it causes his shoulder, Sherlock catches him by the back of the head. Gripping the golden strands, Sherlock shallowly thrusts forward. It's a bit of an empty sensation, since John can't even suck him properly like this. But John's stuttering tongue and clicking noises from the back of his throat combine into one glorious component of pleasure.

More spittle falls onto John's chest. The smell and taste of Sherlock's musk is overpowering, but it's outmatched to the ache in his throat when Sherlock brings his head forward with every thrust. His neck is never going to be the same after this.

Yet, despite the pain, the disgust and the hatred, John can feel himself becoming hard again. Apparently, enough time has passed for the relentless stimulation to finally take its toll. With the blindfold and the steady rising of arousal, John almost loses where he is. For a split second, he feels like this is consensual.

That he's not here, trapped in a cell that he hasn't been out of in God knows how long. He's home with a lover, only they've gotten a little adventurous with their tastes. The moment's gone before it can fully form, but the idea that John is almost that far into losing himself terrifies him.

John moans again, and it is laced with despair. Sherlock shakes with the vibration. He thrusts a few more times, and John thinks he's going to come down his throat. He's not sure if he can stand that thought, despite everything he's already been through. But it doesn't happen.

Sherlock pulls back, achingly hard. His body screams at him to continue, to complete the last few thrusts that would finish the job. But he's not going to come into John's mouth tonight.

He sits back on his knees, pressing John further into the sofa. Sherlock breathes a little, to get himself back under control. Wonderful John, he doesn't really know how much the sight of him like this, helpless and aroused, affects Sherlock.

Sherlock swings himself off of John, to stand barefoot on the cold floor. He contemplates his next best course of action. He kneels down, ignoring the protest from his kneecaps. With one long arm, he grips the vibrator, with the other, his hand dances across John's nipples. In beautiful synchronicity, he plays with both.

John chokes on his spit. Past the pleasure, he wishes he had a bit of respite from his arched position. His whole neck and upper back ache, but if he attempts to lie down, his shoulder burns with a fierce fire. Sherlock twists a nipple and rotates the toy at the same time and John arches further upward.

Sherlock's becoming a bit bored, he's sad to say. Oh, not bored by John, never bored by John. But the reactions are ones he's already seen, and he's eager to make John crumble. It's been mentioned that Sherlock is patient, but it really is only to a certain point until the greedy child within him takes over.

Sherlock brings his bag closer with the hand that was teasing John's chest. He's still twisting and shallowly thrusting the toy, and John hasn't seemed to notice the absence of one aspect of stimulation. Sherlock rummages until his hand clasps over the cock ring from before. Sherlock brings his focus back to the doctor's face, then travels to the slowly returning erection. It's almost time.

A wicked smile curls his lips, and Sherlock flicks the speed up a notch higher with his pinky. John keens, the gag releasing the sound unimpeded. With relish Sherlock continues to thrust, watching John's tears leak slightly from the blindfold. The salty fluid mixed with John's spit at the crux of his ear is the most delicious thing Sherlock has ever tasted.

Sherlock places the cock ring on a nearby cushion, and takes John's neglected cock in his hand. With slow strokes he tightens at the base and eases at the tip, a move that brings John to a continual knife's edge. He squeezes his fingers at the head, pulling a little at the foreskin.

John's noises have no choice but to be inarticulate, but Sherlock likes to think that he would have him babbling at this point anyway. John's fully hard now, and the ring slides on easily. It's a heady and addicting sensation, owning John's pleasure like this. Sherlock can't seem to get enough of it.

Sherlock's hand leaves John's prick to go back to his nipples. He pinches and twists, watching John's chest heave with glee. Apparently, John had been so lost that he hadn't even noticed the ring slip on. Because now he looks almost confused, knowing that time and this intense arousal should have made him come by now. John figures it out, of course, and he lets out a shout of frustration.

Sherlock smiles adoringly. Watching John struggle to keep up is endearing. He flicks the setting higher, and this time the shout is one of pain. Of course, the continual stimulation must be agonizing right about now, and it will only get worse if he doesn't come soon.

Seeing John's lips stretched around the gag is a pretty sight, but he needs to be able to hear John for this next bit. He unbuckles the gag, and John repeatedly opens and closes his jaw in response. When his mouth is relieved, John goes back to gritting his teeth in denial. He can feel himself slipping, dripping away. He's becoming desperate to come. But he can't. He won't ask. _Say nothing_ John tells himself, _Don't beg. Don't beg. Oh GOD feels so GOOD!_

That was the result of Sherlock moving the toy with larger and firmer pushes. John feels fully fucked now, and he can't get enough of it. He keens again when Sherlock stops thrusting, just leaves it grinding on his gland.

"John," Sherlock's voice is reluctantly grounding him back to reality, "John, I know it's hard, but I need you to concentrate." John whines, unwilling to play any more games. God, just let him come dammit.

"You have to ask John. Beg for me to let you come and I will, but you have to ask." Sherlock says this without his usual imperious tone. He actually sounds, almost like he's pleading to John. Like this is hurting him as much as it does John. Which is utter bollocks, of course. Of course John knows that, but, still.

It couldn't hurt right? To ask. Just this once. It couldn't hurt. God knows he feels like he could explode if he doesn't get what he needs soon.

So John begs.

"Please," John garbles, voice hoarse from shouting, "please, Sherlock, let me come. Please." It won't be until much later that John realizes this is the first time he has said his name since being imprisoned.

The vibrator clicks off, and it's such a shock that John gasps out loud. With quick, but careful, ease the toy is slid out of his abused hole. John groans when he feels the last of the dreaded thing slip from his entrance. Then something else is filling him, something familiar. It's Sherlock breaching him, and he still hasn't taken off the cock ring.

Confused, desperate, John pleads, "Wait, you said-"

"You will get to come John. You've done so well, that was very good of you," Sherlock slides in easily, and his tirade is cut short from a moan. "But remember why you're here John, I own you. I own your pleasure. And you took that from me, so now you're being punished." With each sentence end and beginning he slides into John languorously. Each stroke is a torture to his abused body, but it's also the most amazing sensation John's ever experienced. He can't shift in this position, can't gain any friction. He's forced to stay exactly where he is, take the pleasure when it comes to him. And a tiny part of John is starting to like that idea.

Sherlock begins picking up speed, and any hit to his prostate is painful and explosive. John's groaning in time with Sherlock, and he starts to hear the whispered litany of his name above him.

"John, beautiful, John, glorious, John, oh, John, God!" Sherlock grips his thighs tightly, and thrusts in earnest now. Every hit inside of him has John choking on the air in his lungs. Sherlock's reveling in the heat, the stretched walls. With a brutal yank, Sherlock rips off the blindfold. John's flooded with light, and it's watching those hazed blue eyes focus on him that has Sherlock coming in spurts.

His face is probably locked into a ridiculous contortion, but he hardly cares. With a breathy gasp, he slips off the ring from John's engorged member, and brings him to completion with a few firm strokes. John comes with a loud cry, his semen steaming onto his chest and stomach.

When he's finally crested down from the overwhelming wave of release, John's been untied. He's still on the couch, but he's facing it without the blindfold on. He knows he's really lost his senses, when he just realizes that there's a firm and warm body pressed behind him. Sherlock's got both long, pale arms wrapped firmly across his chest. He can feel the dark curls tickle the back of his neck, as well as the steady breathing ghosting along his ear. Sherlock's asleep. The realization sense a wave of shock through him, but, also to John's surprise, he does nothing.

He has no urge to flip the man onto the ground and shatter his larynx. To take him hostage and bargain him for his freedom. Instead, he just feels another crest of lethargy, and John falls back to sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

The next time John wakes up, Sherlock is nowhere in his cell. He's still naked, and on the couch. Which, isn't a relief exactly, but he likes knowing that he wasn't that far asleep that he wouldn't even notice something like that. He sits up, rotating his neck and shoulders. John winces from the resulting pops and crackles. The couch isn't that comfortable to begin with, and sleeping on his side all night only exacerbated his discomfort. Not that he's going to complain to his "warden".

John notices freshly cleaned clothes and a modest meal of a sandwich and crisps with bottled water by the door. When he dresses himself and especially when he bends down, he resolutely ignores the stabs of stretched pain in his backside. He may have been thoroughly prepared, but his body is not as young as it used to be.

He has fresh, purple bruises around his wrists and knees to go with the faded green on his arms. A tiny, delirious part of John almost thinks that they're beautiful. He tries not to be distracted by them every time he sees his hands.

It's when he goes to eat his meal at the desk that he notices the chair is mysteriously gone. John...really isn't sure what to make of that. Is it punishment for something? An effort to humiliate him if he eats on the floor?

The idea is frankly absurd. If he hasn't cracked from all of this, he's not going to weep from a damned missing chair. John heads to the sofa to eat, when he finally spots the difference in his cell. It had been niggling at the back of his mind, but John had passed it off as anxiousness. The straps on the bed are gone. Now, it's a simple single bed with white sheets and a pillow.

John can't stop the small feeling of gratefulness at the sight. Maybe he can actually get some decent sleep tonight. Fear spikes in his heart. Is he seriously concerned about his sleep patterns after being...(call a spade a spade) raped again? John sits on the couch, numb.

As he chews mindlessly into his meal, he forces himself to sort through his own emotions. He's tired and sore, that's a given. But the ache has seemed to seep into his soul a little bit. John can only feel exhaustion and numbness where his anger is supposed to be. This sends him into a small inner panic. If he doesn't have his anger, then what tether can he grasp on to in this hell?

But, wait. No, it's not gone. The anger, the hatred at his situation and what he's been subjected to, it's all still there. It's not even faded. It's moved into a higher state of being. When John realizes what's happened to him, he almost smiles. He holds back because he decides it would look more than a little insane.

John's rage hasn't dissipated at all. It's grown. His white hot fury has now been forged into cold steel, ready to be used. It's at this moment, when eating salty crisps and taking sips of water in a bleached white uniform, that John realizes what it really means to hate someone. This is why he hasn't heard the Voice, why his hand has not shaken since he's woken up. His enemy was once a nameless and faceless group of people shooting rounds at him and his brothers-in-arms. Now, his enemy has a very distinctive name, the angles of his face are forever burned into his brain, and he has a bloody trenchcoat like any proper super-villain.

His body and spirit still feel abused and worn, but he absolutely refuses to be broken. A new method of escape forms in John's mind, though it's hardly appealing. But he's a soldier, he can adapt.

He'll play along with Sherlock. Become his good toy. Until the timing is right, and then he'll gleefully put a bullet through his brain.

 _No matter how good the sex is_ , the Voice whispers. But John doesn't respond and just keeps eating.

John's just gotten done with his wash-up after workouts when Sherlock visits again. There's no greeting or leering, Sherlock just inserts another disk like always. John stands, unsure of how to respond.

He still has his original plan in mind, but he's not exactly jumping at the chance to try and seduce Sherlock or show him affection of any kind. Besides, if he is too obvious about it, Sherlock is going to see right through it. And John really doesn't like to think about what that might mean if he was caught trying to trick him.

It takes him a few seconds of hesitation for him to realize why his chair is missing. Now, unless he wants to sit on the floor or the bed, he has no choice but to sit next to Sherlock.

John thinks about giving the biggest "Fuck you" he can accomplish, and just sit on the damn bed. But he stops himself. This is a perfect opportunity, and he doesn't even have to do anything. Just concede and sit, right?

Stiff back, John sits on the farthest end from Sherlock he can. His side is pressed into the armrest, his arms are crossed, and he stares resolutely at the screen. His mind isn't on what they're watching. Scenes from the previous day keep playing over and over again in his skull. Where he's sitting is where he'd supported himself before being dragged to the middle to suffer and beg for release. John ignores the traitorous spark of arousal, and keeps staring ahead.

Sherlock keeps to his side of the couch for the whole movie. John hasn't looked at him since he entered his cell, but he would bet big money that the bastard is smirking at him right now.

The minutes pass tortuously slow, until Sherlock gets up from the couch and removes the disk once the credits roll. John thinks that that's it. That they're back to this weird routine of ours, but Sherlock sits back down, much closer to John than before.

John's arms draw close when Sherlock reaches out his hand. Sharp eyes focus on his, and Sherlock raises a sardonic eyebrow. No words are exchanged, but the message is certainly clear enough.

There's nothing that I can't take from you, so why are you even fighting?

And John's got some choice fucking words for that look, but he remembers to be at least slightly cooperative, and he breathes out. His blue eyes are chips of stone though, and he doesn't unclench his arms.

Sherlock smiles at this, and he pulls at one of his arms. John's wondering what the hell he's doing, but it becomes obvious when Sherlock doesn't take his eyes away from his bruises.

Those long, pale fingers are tracing the shapes. His touch is light, like he's afraid John will break with the slightest pressure. John has to choke down a snort at that thought.

John thinks that the reverence will stop there, but he's quickly proven wrong once again when Sherlock brings his raw wrist to that lush mouth. With a tentative lick, Sherlock tastes the lingering salt and slight copper taste. He's roughly reminded of the bite mark John still has on his shoulder. It's all he can do not to bite down to give a matching one on the tender skin.

Instead, Sherlock gently turns the wrist, licking at the marks. He swipes at the red lines, and suckles at the blue spots. When he's done with one arm, he moves on to the next. John offers this one without prompting, which sends a spark of surprise down Sherlock's spine.

 _Progress._ his mind whispers triumphantly. He grins into the offered wrist, and covers the arm in the same way as the pair. 

With the wrist still captive under his mouth, Sherlock glances up at John through dark lashes. The man has not taken his eyes off of him, stonily watching as Sherlock has lavished his arm with nips and licks. The sight of those steadfast eyes is the most addictive thing Sherlock can think of.

John's glare is a steady burn that sparks his mind as well as his desire. Cocaine had been a flash fire, burning through his system as quickly as it entered him. The taste of John is an aphrodisiac, the burn of his vision is an injection, the smell of his sweat is a hazy smoke. Sherlock wants to consume it all like the addict he has never ceased being.

"Maybe I could keep your eyes in a jar." Sherlock muses. That would be enjoyable, having those stormy depths all to himself. Keeping them preserved, forever available for his perusal. Though eventually the color would fade. Pity. It's John sudden pale pallor that informs him this was out loud. John tries to jerk back his hand, but Sherlock's grip is firm.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Don't fret," John stops tugging, his face apprehensive, "I wouldn't be able to aptly perceive your expressions if you didn't have eyes."

That statement is hardly reassuring. But John hasn't tried to get his hand back. He's either faking stoic, or is just too tired in his soul to even try. Sherlock goes back to placing kisses between each of John's knuckles. he travels up the arm to John's shoulder, still clothed. It's not his bullet arm, Sherlock traces that one with his hand. He places a chaste kiss on John's collar bone, and moves up to the neck.

John has tilted his head for better access, and Sherlock has never felt happier. The kisses travel from his neck, to behind his ear, to his jawline. His other hand is resting on John's shoulder for support, though he is careful not to place too much pressure. The wound is still fresh, and he doesn't feel like this moment warrants pained cries.

Sherlock gets to the very corner of John's mouth before the man pulls back.

For tense minutes, everything is still. Sherlock is just hovering above John's mouth. He glances up at the doctor, but he's no longer staring at him. His eyes are on the ceiling, and he looks like he's steeling himself for something. Whether it's pain from his denial, or Sherlock simply forcing his lips onto his.

Sherlock could do it. Sherlock _should_ do it. For John to deny anything at this point is foolish, and will surely fester a sense of entitlement. But, he can't.

Sherlock frowns, pulling back. Much as he yearns to explore John's mouth and lips with his own, he doesn't feel that it's right. Not yet. He still wants John to give this part up freely. To kiss him without it being a forced gesture or a means of attempting to bite off Sherlock's tongue. For now, he'll leave it.

Without a word, Sherlock leaves the cell. John blinks, still prone on the couch. For a startled second, John has a massive urge to say goodbye. Thankfully, he's too stunned to speak. As the door clicks closed behind the man, John can suddenly feel all of the air returning in his room.


	17. Chapter 17

John actually does get a decent night's sleep on the buckles-free bed. He had forgotten how energetic that makes him, how relaxing it feels. John hates where it came from.

He does his daily routine with more vigor, still thinking of ways to escape. He likes his seducing plan, but what's the endgame?

Does he club Sherlock over the head when they're watching a movie? He doesn't have any weapons. Manhandle him? That's promising, Sherlock's obviously important enough to use as collateral. That could protect him from the guards for a little while. Until he ditches Sherlock. At which point an untold number of mercenaries would descend on his ass.

John's learned from Afghanistan that when you take a hostage, your value as a human life drops drastically. The only thing that matters is getting the one you kidnapped home safely. John doubts the people in this building would have any qualms about shooting him, even if he was the in the right. John obviously can't afford whatever their paychecks are worth.

John sighs, disheartened by his skim options. He's startled when Sherlock walks through the door, another movie in hand. This time John doesn't wait for Sherlock to pop in the DVD before sitting down.

He sits on his side of the couch, staring ahead. Sherlock smirks at him, pleased at his apparent cooperativeness. He slides in the disk, starts the film, then sits remarkably closer to John than is their usual.

John flinches into his side. It's not that Sherlock is even uncomfortably up against him. But he's only an inch away, and John's really not okay with that. He doesn't say anything, doesn't protest. John just breathes and counts backwards from ten. He starts again when the tension's still not gone from his shoulders.

He relaxes marginally, leaning back into his seat. Sherlock hasn't done anything, he's just sitting closer. Besides, isn't this what he wanted? For Sherlock to get comfortable with him? God, but he really hates this plan.

They sit like this for a good part of the beginning of the movie. Then, Sherlock does something completely unexpected.

Sherlock pantomimes a wide yawn, lifts up his arms, and drapes them over the sofa behind John.

It takes John a stunned second to process what the fuck just happened.

John looks between the screen, Sherlock's profile, and the long arm that's resting innocently behind him.

John snorts. Then he giggles uncontrollably, then he hiccups a laugh.

Sherlock looks sharply at him, this isn't a humorous scene in the movie. What with the grossly unrealistic decapitation with a machete. (Sherlock would know, he's tried.)

"What?" Sherlock demands. Which just makes John dissolve into more giggles.

"What is it?" He honestly looks perplexed, and John has to get his breath back times before he can respond.

"Did you-did you seriously just pull the oldest dating move in the book?"

When Sherlock starts to look embarrassed, John peals into more laughter.

"Oh, Oh God, you did. You really did."

"I was under the impression this was romantic." Sherlock defends.

"From what? Dating for Dummies?" John giggles. Sherlock doesn't respond to that, which seals his guilt. John clutches his stomach. "No, no I get it," John continues, still tittering, "you got all your dating advice from '80s romcom movie marathons." The idea sends him into full on laughter.

Sherlock can only watch in amazement. Distantly, he's aware of a little voice that says he should be furious of John mocking him. But he's not. He's really not. He's entranced.

Here's paradoxical John Watson, laughing at his captor because he pulled a cheesy romantic move. Sherlock is at least going to sabotage Jim's Paris connections for that one. He should've known better.

It hits Sherlock that he hasn't heard John's laugh since that alleyway incident from so long ago. The compulsion to kiss John overcomes him, and he's got his face in his hands before he knows what he's doing.

John's abruptly stopped laughing. He's stone serious now, just staring Sherlock in the eye. _This is what you wanted_ , his mind whispers, _don't resist now._

With his bare fingers, Sherlock traces John's lips, his icy orbs following the movement. He's so close, bare inches away. It would be undeniably dull for him to kiss John now of all times. Especially when he's had a laughing fit at his expense.

Sherlock looks John back in the eye, searching for acceptance to continue. What he finds is hesitation warring with defiance. With more restraint than Sherlock has ever thought himself capable of, Sherlock lets go.

He sits back onto the sofa, and stops the movie before it's finished. He gets up to leave, not looking behind him. He stops dead when he hears a small "Bye" from the couch.

Sherlock's head whips back around. There's John, staring determinedly at him, not apologizing or trying to back out of the departed pleasantry. Sherlock nearly sprints back to kiss him then and there, but he just beams back at his army doctor.

"Goodnight John," Sherlock says, heart hammering when the door swishes closed behind him. Progress.

John groans into his hand, smacking his head onto the arm when he lies back down. Did he really just do that? All of that? Laugh with him like he was with his rugby mates instead of his damned kidnapper? Say goodbye to him like a shy schoolgirl at the end of her first date? Jesus.

John's palms are sweating, and he can feel his heartbeat in his ears. He's really acting like this is a first date. With dawning horror, John realizes that his anger, which has kept him going, is slowly dimming in intensity. John nearly sobs with the epiphany.

No. He can't lose this. No. He can't actually become Sherlock's puppet. He doesn't want to lose what he is. What makes him a fighter, a soldier. But he knows what's coming.

His body is losing the battle, and his mind is slowly ceding defeat. John nearly hyperventilates with the urge to leave. To pound on his cell walls until the concrete breaks or he does. To scream for help until his lungs bleed.

He needs out.

He needs freedom.

He wants to go home. Wherever that is now.

John escapes the next day.


	18. Chapter 18

It happens the next afternoon, when John is sweating from the workout and his own inner anxieties. He doesn't like his seducing plan anymore. It's too risky. If he's already got Stockholm Syndrome, he sure as fuck can't risk getting even closer to his kidnapper. But what choice does he have?

It's either gain Sherlock's trust, or just let himself be toyed with until he breaks. And that's not an option. But John can't trust himself now. He's too much of a walking manipulation waiting to happen. So he needs a new way out. Something else to get him away from Sherlock without having to try and establish a bond with the bastard.

John's despairing over what that second option could possibly be, when the door to his cell opens.

John stops his jogging, dead in the center of the room. He's staring at the door, waiting for someone to come through. Sherlock, more than likely, or a guard with a non-lethal but extremely painful taser.

Nothing happens. No one comes rushing in to yell or demand or fuck him. (Or rescue him, sadly, but John's never been that hopeful.) It's just, open.

It's only half open, wide enough for him to see that the left side of the hallway is empty. That doesn't mean the right side is clear too, he reminds himself. It could be a trick. It's most likely a trick. A way to test his loyalty and give Sherlock a good reason to "discipline" him.

After what his punishment was for masturbating, he really doesn't like what might happen in an escape attempt. Probably not something as mild as extreme orgasm denial.

John glances at the cameras, to see if Sherlock is watching his every move like the little guinea pig he is. Nothing. The light is off. The steady blinking red has now been transformed into solid black. That...means something good? Right?

John can feel his heart beat in his ears. He's sweating along his forehead, lost in indecision. Does he go now? Is this his only chance at freedom? But it's so fucking obvious isn't it? There's no way that he can get out this easy. If it was someone rescuing him, shouldn't they have contacted him by now? Let him know that friendlies were on their way?

John wipes his hand over his forehead and mouth, tasting salt. He knows one thing. Whatever this is, it won't last for long.

With that, John creeps closer to the door. Each footstep feels like a mine might go off underneath his feet. His breath is steady, his hands are still. He gets a good look out the left, and yes, it's all clear. The hallway is not pure white like his cell. It looks like he's in a posh business center in the center of London. It's all warm browns and reds, and John suddenly promises himself to never take color for granted again. There's a damned potted plant off to the side for God's sake.

Only the wall in front of him is pure white, meant to throw him off to his location. Slowly, ever so slowly, John looks around the door. The hallway is a mirror image to the other one, and just as empty. Heart racing, John takes a barefooted step outside. Again, it's made to look like his cell, the concrete is the same.

When John's foot touches the outside of his walls, nothing goes off. No one rushes him and electrocutes him, it's still dead silent. John takes one more step, then another. The anxiousness of waiting for the other shoe to drop makes him almost taste vomit.

His toes dig into plush carpet, and it's such a sensory rush that John nearly buckles. It suddenly comes to him that the hallway smells like cinnamon, and he's not sure if this means he'll love the smell or hate it for the rest of his life. If he has a very long future in the first place. Not if he doesn't **get the fuck out right now.**

That's apparently all the mental push he needs to get his arse moving. Suddenly he's running, bare feet and all. He needs to be quick. Sherlock must have been alerted by now, and there's no doubt that this place has more cameras.

He feels like a fucking sore thumb in his white uniform, but he can't help that. He feels naked without his gun, and he definitely can't help that either. John edges up to a corner, peering over. So far, so good, no guards.

Which sets off more alarm bells in his head, but damn it he can't look a gift horse in the mouth now. Not now. He's searching frantically for an exit. He's got no idea if he's supposed to go up or down but, wait. No windows. Anywhere. He's underground.

John smirks victoriously. Up then. Now to find a staircase. Lifts are a moronic move. There's only going to be more cameras and he'd be a sitting duck. John can only hope that not everyone in this complex is lazy.

There's been a few doors, but all of them have had the fake white wall and concrete floor, giving away what kind of rooms they were.

John's starting to feel the pressure of time on his head. He needs an exit. Now.

Calm. Deep breaths. Desperation's only going to make this even more difficult. Easing up on the panic, John susses out where he might need to go. Too bad there's no fucking arrows pointing to "Exit" or anything. That would just make it too easy on John Watson.

Well, he doesn't find any arrows, but he does find a door without the concrete and white wash. Looking around, John carefully but swiftly turns the knob. It's unlocked. Air rushes out of his mouth as he peers around, ready to slam the door and bolt it if someone's waiting on the other side.

What he finds are cars. Dozens of them. All kinds. From a school bus (John prays that wasn't used like he thinks it would be) to what looks to be an authentic 250 GTO Ferrari. That had been the car of his dreams when he was a kid. John shakes his head. Focus.

There, on the other side of the garage, is a door. John ducks down and glides by all of the cars, the escape route already mapped in his head. He hopes he's at least got some cover, but he can't be too sure. If he's bought himself some time, maybe they won't look here until it's too late. John reaches the door, hand on the handle.

This is it. If it was all a set-up, this is where he'd get sent back to his cell. John waits for an incredibly tense moment. He doesn't hear shouting, he doesn't hear the swish of Sherlock's coat and that deep voice mocking him for his attempt at escaping him. All he hears is silence. And when he turns the knob, it clicks open.

John's standing in an alleyway. The scent of hot asphalt and garbage is assaulting his nose. The night breeze picks up, and the tickle of the air and the clang of a loosed can startles him. John can't see the stars when he looks up, but that's okay. Smog has never been more beautiful. Distantly, he can hear cars and the tinny sound of music through a speaker. John's vision goes blurry, and he hastily wipes away the tears.

He's in London. Ugly, gorgeous, stinking, cultured, dark and shining London. This whole time he's been in some sort of secret base in the heart of his city. That really pisses him off that these bastards are on his home turf. But he's got other things to worry about now.

Quickly, John strips himself of his shirt, and rips the fabric into strips. He should be doing this farther away from this hell hole, but he doesn't trust taking another step. Tetanus shots only go so far.

He wraps the strips snugly around the soles and balls of his feet. His toes are still bare, which is unfortunate, but he'll have to make do. He takes one step after careful step, avoiding the edges of the alley where people have most likely shattered beer bottles and God knew what else.

As he makes it further down the littered walkway, he can't help but crow victoriously in his head. He knows it's way too early to celebrate, and people are undoubtedly after him by now, but he's gotten out. He's free. And John's going to make damned sure it stays that way.

Preferably by making sure that Sherlock Holmes and his whole fucking "Evil Lair" burn to the ground.


	19. Chapter 19

**"JIM!"** , even through the thick walls, the bellow could be heard through several areas of the compound. It could even be distantly distinguished in the lower levels from where the sound originated. The intention of murder and pain could only be fully appreciated in the highest floor of the compound, where said Jim was filing some paperwork.

A seemingly mundane task for a criminal overlord, but like Jim frequently repeated to Sherlock, ruling the underworld wasn't all bombs and blood. The man glanced up from his papers at the sound, a grin pulling his lips across his face. "Uh-oh Sebby", Jim sing-songed to the man standing stiffly in the corner, "looks like Daddy's in the doghouse again."

Sherlock slammed through the door, fury turning his silver eyes to steel. He rushed to the desk, intent on throttling Jim, but was stopped by a hand to his chest from the swiftly moving army man. Sherlock smacked the hand away, snarling, "Don't test me, Sebby," Sherlock sneered.

"Calm down Sherly," Jim said, eyes intent on his partner and his pet.

"Calm down?" It was a testament to his anger that Sherlock had just repeated a phrase, "You released John. You let him **escape.** " Sherlock stepped closer to the desk. Seb followed, but didn't stop him. Sherlock didn't move toward Jim, just slammed his hands on the surface.

"Now he's gone. _Days_ of progress, wasted. Why? So you could have a little giggle at my expense?!" Sherlock yelled the last word, swiping his hands and letting the papers crumble to the floor. It did nothing to quell the anger in his chest, but at least Sebastian would have a hell of a time reorganizing all of that.

At this, Jim stood up, leaning close to Sherlock's face. "I will only say this once, Sherlock," Jim drawled, "Don't, under any circumstances, be dull."

Sherlock's eyes flashed, Jim continued. "You know I wouldn't release your little puppy for a quick laugh. The games come when you're good and ready. I promised that. So why? Why, Sherly dear, would I disable the cameras, unlock the doors, and call off the guards with plenty of time for the good little doctor to escape?"

Sherlock's eyes danced over Jim's features, searching for an answer. The madman wasn't displaying his casual smile anymore. His beady brown eyes were dead, his face set into grim seriousness.

Sherlock breathed a soft gasp when the answer clicked in his head. He stood back from Jim, too caught up in his own mind to be angry anymore.

"You want him to escape just so I can catch him again. Make him see that I can find him anywhere," Sherlock caught Jim's expectant gaze, "That's not all. Then what...ah. Give him a glimpse of the network."

Jim beamed, spreading out his hands and arms in a congratulatory gesture. "See? I knew there was a reason I kept you as a partner, but that's not entirely it Sherly."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not trying to figure it out. He understood this to be Jim's moment to show off. "Your Johnny-boy needs to learn his place." The grin transformed into something much more vicious.

Sherlock couldn't deny the little thrill it sent through his spine, to think about what might happen when he caught John. But, something wasn't right.

"I told you I didn't want to break him. Why are you doing this?"

Jim reached over to his laptop and clicked a few keys. He turned the screen towards Sherlock. The footage was immediately recognizable. It was John in his cell. The screen was split into four parts, all of them showing John after the second "session" they'd had together. Sherlock would be mad if it were anyone else looking in on his time with John, but with Jim, it had only been a matter of time.

"Because this, Sherly, this isn't the doctor giving in to you. This is him trying to trick you."

Sherlock scoffed, he couldn't be tricked. Jim raised an eyebrow, "Don't be so cocksure darling, you only think he was cooperative because you expected him to be. Trust me, I know the good doctor is only shamming it for an extremely poorly planned escape attempt. You did get awfully close though, right here." He fast forwards to when John had laughed for the first glorious time in his cell. And, yes, Sherlock is starting to see it now. There is a loosening in John's shoulders that wasn't present in the other videos.

"But, unfortunately," Jim sighs,"your army pet is too stubborn for his own good." He sped the video again, this time to John pacing in his cell.

"This, Sherlock, is the second choice I warned you about. Johnny's not even thinking about killing himself, but I recognize the look in his eyes. He's considering another option. Something separate from seducing you. And he knows he can't escape on his own, so he has to stop himself from falling for you in some other way. The seed of suggestion was already in his head, and it would have grown into an idea sooner or later. I'm helping you, Sherly darling." Jim's voice was soft, placating.

Sherlock's chest ached, an entirely new sensation. He was aware what this was, but it still didn't sit well with him. He was heartbroken. He'd been so close, and so hopeful that John was becoming his. But it was all a trick. And he knew Jim was right. John would've rather ended his own life than try and have one with Sherlock. Sherlock clenched his fists, trying to stave off the wave of upset and disappointment. _Sentiment,_ Sherlock thought, _What a debilitating phenomenon._

"Oh! Sherly dear!" Jim plastered his hands to his face, concern in his beetle eyes, "Don't fret! That's why I helped you!" Jim came around the desk, and enveloped Sherlock in a tight hug.

Sherlock grimaced, but didn't push him away. Jim got like this occasionally, and the touch wasn't entirely unwelcome at this point.

"Listen," Jim said into his coat, "When you bring back the doctor, just teach him his lesson. Let him know that any attempt at leaving you is pointless. That's the only push he needs Sherly. His stubborn streak will break when he sees just how far you can reach, and what the consequences are for trying to get away from you."

"I still don't want to break him Jim." Sherlock said softly.

"And you won't! I know you'll play it right! You'll just...forcefully influence him." Jim smiled up at him, and stepped away. "Trust me, once Johnny's time-out is all done, we'll all be one big happy family, eh?"

Sherlock didn't exactly smile, but the pain of betrayal was gone from his eyes. "Thank you Jim," Sherlock said, meaning every word.

Jim waggled his fingers at him as he strode from the office. "Go get him big boy! Have fun! I know I did!" Seb's eyes darkened from the memories.


	20. Chapter 20

John stumbled his way to the end of the alley. It had been damned tricky business, avoiding all of the bits that looked like they were lined with some new brand of Hepatitis. When he reaches the end, John leans his weight onto the brick wall, gingerly putting his weight on his feet.

Nothing snaps under him, which is a definite good sign. The street before him is empty of wanderers. Streetlight keeps everything well lit, and a few of the shops look like they cater exclusively to the night owl crowd. While John knows he's not in the heart of London, he must be pretty damned close.

Which is brilliant. More people means more avenues of escape. John would try to flag down a cab, but there are no cars passing him on the street. There's barely anyone around at all. John wonders what time it could possibly be to make London so stagnant.

First thing's first. Distance. John's got no bloody idea where he is, but anywhere farther from here is a good start. So John turns to the right, where he sees an intersection, and starts walking. The pavement bites into his soles, the strips of fabric doing very little to help him. He wraps his arms around himself, chilled from the night air. He hates how vulnerable he must look, shirtless and lost.

But the bite from the wind and the ache in his feet only steel his resolve. His discomfort is a testament to his freedom, and he's going to keep on striding. He's endured far worse before.

John reaches the end of the street, and there, a blessed car is rolling down towards him. John waves his arms, hoping against hope that he doesn't look as crazy as he feels. The car slows down, pulling up close to the curb John is standing on. The window rolls down, and a concerned man's head pops out.

"Jesus, mate, you all right?" The man's eyes are torn between concern and suspicion. John doesn't blame him for a second. He'd think he was a head case too.

"Listen," John rushes, "I really don't think you'd believe me if I told you where I just came from. I just need to get to a police station right now." John's voice is urgent, but he tries not to push it. He hasn't seen any other cars pass by them. It's either plead to the stranger or try and walk. And who knows if someone's already after him by now?

"I can pay you," It's not a lie, he'll pay the guy his entire life's pension as soon as he can get access to his bank accounts again. If he'd just get him to a damned station already. And let him in from the cold, "All I need is a ride."

The guy assesses him dubiously once more, then nods his head to the other side. "Get in, there's a place not far from here."

John breathes, so relieved he could melt. He can't stop uttering thank you's until he's buckled into his seat. The pair rides in awkward silence for a short time, until the stranger clears his throat. "So...what's your name? Or is this like a Jason Bourne thing?"

John smirks a bit, at least his hitchhiker appreciates good movies. John stops himself from realizing that he just made a comparison between a normal human being and the monster that kept him prisoner for several days. He still hasn't answered. "My name's John. John Watson."

There's a small pause from the driver's seat that makes John look over. The man coughs a laugh and jokes, "Should've stuck with Bourne." It's an innocent enough joke, but the way the man tenses his hands on the wheel set off alarm bells in John's head.

John pretends he doesn't notice, looking back out the window. He's greedily looking at the outside world, but inside of his head he's warring with his instincts. Isn't he just being paranoid? It's certainly understandable. John suspects his trust issues from now on are going to send his therapist into a tizzy.

But the paranoia doesn't go away. And John was a soldier and a doctor. He's trusted his instincts since he learned what the word meant. Also, it's probably a big indicator that he's up shit creek since they're turning back around. John glances at the guy from his peripherals, and catches him about to lock the doors. That would be clue number two.

Without thinking, without waiting for his mind to catch up to his body and tell him what an idiot he is, John unbuckles and launches himself out of the car, rolling and ducking. He'd gotten fucking lucky. The car had been turning when John catapulted himself, so the speed was a hell of a lot less than it could have been.

Still doesn't stop him from crying out when bare skin meets rough asphalt. He rolls from his momentum, bones practically crashing together. His skin gets torn in patches, and when he hobbles up, there's blood on his chest and pants. There's a sudden bout of dizziness that screams _Concussion_ , but John can't stop now. John bends, resting his hands on his knees for a tiny moment. He hears the tires screech to a halt, and the man shouting for him.

John spits out the blood from his bit tongue, and moves as fast as he can.

The car speeds towards him, and John thinks that maybe the guy is going to kill him. But he slows down as he gets close, obviously not wanting to hurt him further as he pulls him into the car. The slowing vehicle and the indecision of how to proceed on the stranger's part gives John plenty of time to limp to the other end of the street. Even with a ringing head and a limp, John manages to get away when he runs down an alley too small for the car.

John doesn't have time to catch his breath. He hears the car halt, and the sound of a door being slammed. Great. John certainly can't outrun him in this state. So he backs himself up against the wall, hiding in the deepest shadow. He winces when his heel steps on something sharp. _Please don't be a needle._

John's breath slows, and everything narrows when he sees the man come running down the alley. The stranger stops, obviously confused over where John could've possibly gone. He creeps down, attempting to be silent. There's a skip across from where John is standing, and the man peeks into it. He tries to check behind it, and the man is looking directly at John for a split second, but he still doesn't see him. He can't budge the thing from his side, so he goes around to see if there was a gap that John tried to squeeze through. It brings his back directly to John.

John leaps from the shadows, tackling the bastard to the ground. The man tries to shout in surprise, but the sound is cut short when his back hits the floor. The air rushes out of his lungs, and John uses that moment to punch him senseless. The man slumps from one hit. Either John's adrenaline is giving him the extra boost, or this guy was a wimp.

John does take a moment to critically assess him. He's not even a little muscular. Everything about this guy screams bland. From his mousy brown hair to his honest to god tweed jacket. He looks like the kind of guy that you would swipe milk money from when you were kids. How the hell had a guy like this ended up working for someone like Sherlock?

Instincts kick in, and John pats him down for his wallet. He feels a stab of guilt when he opens it up to a pretty woman smiling at the camera in the center of the leather. John takes the twenty quid he finds, as well as the man's shoes. They're a tight fit, but they're certainly better than nothing. John debates with himself, and ends up stealing the jacket as well. The thing is hideous beyond all measure, but at least it's warm. John leaves the alley, promising himself that he'll let the police know where this guy is. He might work for Sherlock, but something tells John it's not entirely voluntary.

As he exits the stinking ally, he finds that the car is still running. John entertains the idea of taking it, but immediately dismisses it. He might be a sore thumb right now, but stealing a car will make it way too easy to track him down.

The man hadn't had a phone on him when he searched him, so he checks the glove compartment. Nothing. Not even under the seats. What kind of man in this day and age doesn't carry a bloody mobile? John checks himself, breathes. Nothing for it. He just has to keep walking. He's still dangerously close to the compound.

John spots a few more cars along the way, but he avoids all of them. His paranoia is ratcheted up to eleven now. And he has no idea if the man was telling the truth that there's a police station near here. He finds a tube station, but it's closed for reconstruction. John nearly rips the sign to bits.

John grips his head, frustrated and, yeah he'll admit it, scared. There's been several cameras he's passed on the way here. John has no doubt he's been spotted already. And if someone like the tweed man was working for Sherlock, who knows how many other spies he's got lurking about?

 _Pull it together_ , John tells himself, _find somewhere with a phone. Someplace where you can lay low for a bit._

John scans the street, and finds only one building with the lights still on. It's a restaurant, judging by the heavenly smell wafting from the place. There's no sign marking its name, which worries John. It could be extremely exclusive, and the patrons could end up turning him away or charging him with trespassing and harassment or some such nonsense. Which, John thinks, actually wouldn't be all that bad. Being arrested isn't exactly how he wants to get to the station, but he'll take it.

John rushes across the street, and knocks on the faded wooden door.


	21. Chapter 21

No one answers, which is understandable. He tries the handle, but it doesn't turn in his grip. So John knocks again and again, hard enough to rattle the door on its hinges. He hears banging from inside, and John steps back. He throws his hands in the air as a placating gesture. Last thing he wants is to get shot as a mistaken burglar.

The door swings open. A large man in girth and height steps through the door with a bat in his meaty grip. His blonde, thinning hair is pulled back into a small ponytail that starkly stands out from his flushed red face. His expression is twisted into a threatening snarl, which transforms into shock when he sees John on his doorstep. Distantly, John thinks about what he must look like. Ugly jacket covering a bare chest, with uniform white pants, tiny black shoes and blood on any skin that hit the pavement.

John waves a hand, and tries to smile. "Um, can I use your phone?" The man startles, like he hadn't expected John to speak. There's a tense moment, and John thinks the man's going to scream that he's mental and slam the door in his face. Instead, he steps back inside the door and waves him inside.

"Any funny business and I'll have you on your arse before you can blink, got it?" The man waves the bat, and John nods his agreement. It's blessedly warm inside, and John realizes why he hadn't noticed a sign. He's at the back of the restaurant, in the kitchens. Everything is clean, but not overly so. Grit and stains from ages ago still cling to everything, but it hardly deters John from the smell coming from the stove.

It reminds him suddenly of Christmas' when his Grandmum was alive. She'd make enough to feed several battalions, all of it from scratch. Everything had left him feeling full to a bursting point, but he'd still manage to stuff a few more bites down, just to try everything. In all of his years as a kid, nothing had ever tasted bad in that house.

His stomach rumbles, and John flushes in embarrassment. The man's eyes soften from their hard suspicion. He points to a tiny office off to the side. "Phone's in there," he rumbles.

John utters a small thanks, and heads over. It's even tinier on the inside. Installed shelves are full of paperwork, and there's a computer that looks like it would be able to survive a nuclear holocaust. An old land-line phone is next to it, and John quickly dials 999.

"Police, what's your emergency?"

"Hello, I've just been," Okay, Jesus, how does he explain this without sounding insane? "kidnapped. I need to talk to a policeman. I know my attacker."

"Name and address?"

That makes him pause. He knows only one, but is still paranoid about giving out his name. John looks around, and finds a couple of envelopes next to the pad of paper and pen. "I'm at Angelo's Italian Dining."

"Alright sir, someone will be on the way soon. What's your name?" He can't say it. Not yet. Not until he knows he's safe.

"Sir? Sir-" John hangs up.

John jumps when the man peers around the door. "Oi. You alright in here?"

John nods, "Yeah, yeah I'm fine. Police are on their way. Um-" John rubs the back of his neck. He already owes this man, he doesn't want to trouble him further, but-"listen, is it okay if I stay inside, until they get here? I won't be any trouble, I swear."

This time, the man's eyes have completely lost their hardness. He looks at him with...sympathy? "What kind of trouble are you in mate?"

John huffs out a bitter laugh, "The kind you can't seem to get away from." He wonders if he's being difficult for giving such a vague answer to an obviously curious man. But the giant just laughs the same way as John.

"Been there before mate. Come on, you look thin as a rail." John follows him out of the tiny room back into the well lit kitchens. Apparently, while he had been on the phone, the stranger had set up a plate for him. Both plates are heaped with noodles and red sauce, and there's a small basket of rolls lying beside it. The stranger pulls out two metal chairs, and both takes their places. John digs in, and the first bite is just as divine as he expected. He plows it all down, and then stops himself. He looks up at the bemused expression on the man's face.

"Been a while since you've had a decent meal, eh?"

John does his broken grin again, "You have no idea." He continues to shovel, and when he feels less like a ravenous wolf, he asks, "So, why are you here so late?"

The man shrugs and eats some of his food, "Basically come here whenever I can't sleep. Helps me calm down. Had an inkling I was meant to be here tonight. Call it a sixth sense." John raises a dubious eyebrow, but doesn't comment.

"So then, you're just accustomed to taking in weirdos with bad fashion tastes?"

The man shakes his head and takes a bite, "Nah, mate, just lost souls."

This stops John, and he looks back at the man. He waves a beefy hand around the general vicinity of his eyes and says "Knew a man once. Had the same look as you did. Lost, alone. Barely a pot to piss in. So he turned to a lot of bad things, ended up in even deeper shit than before." He stops his speech, and takes another bite.

John waits, then curiosity gets the better of him and he pushes, "What happened to him?"

The man grins at him, "Clawed his own way out mate. Went to hell and back and was reborn a different man. Last I heard, he'd turned a new leaf and opened up an Italian restaurant under his name in the middle of London." John smiles genuinely at Angelo this time.

"Course, things would have probably gone smoother for the bloke if someone were there to help him out. Help him get his head together while he was wearing a fucking ugly coat and shoes that were giving him blisters."

John's heart is in his throat, and he finds no way to express his gratitude. "Listen, if there's any way-"

The man waves his hand, "Don't even start mate. I've had my demons, this is just my repenting is all. You thanking me is gonna taint that. So don't even try, yeah? Just eat your pasta."

John nods, and bites into an impossibly soft roll. He jumps in his seat when he hears a knock on the front door. Angelo scoots back in his seat muttering, "That'd be the coppers then. You finish up, I'll go get them." John nods, words of unending gratitude caught in his mouth. He raises the fork to his lips.

It takes him three point five seconds to recognize the sound of a gun being clipped.

"NO!" John screams, and three things happen at once. The chair he's flung himself from hits the floor, the windows from the front room crash in, and the door to the kitchen is blown wide open. The sound rings in his already swirling head, and John ducks down to avoid any debris.

Angelo is not as quick. He get hit in the shoulder from some shrapnel. The speed makes the large splinter stick into his shoulder, and the man yells.

"Shit!" John spits, he moves towards the man, back into battle mode. Get the civilian to safety. Tend to the wound. Fire back. He'll work on the logistics of the last one later. "Come on!" John grips him by the unwounded shoulder, "We have to mo-" He's cut off from his instruction when he's pulled back by two armed men in black gear.

John struggles, but these men aren't idiots. They've already got both of his arms trapped behind his back. He has no other option but to stand or kneel. It's not difficult to choose. Several more men flood the kitchen, all of them heavily armed, all of their features covered. Except for the one who strides in last. John struggles again when he sees the familiar head of curls.

Sherlock enters from the direction of the dining area, smug grin plastered on to his face. "Well, well," Sherlock tuts, "I have to say, you've made a new record John. Escaped and out of my grasp for, oh, two and a half hours? Well done. If you had kept moving, you could have had an additional half hour to your time."

"Yeah," John snaps, "only took you a small squadron to get a hold of a barefooted runaway."

Sherlock's smile hardens,"I did warn you before, you can't possibly escape from me. Did you meet any of my agents on the way? I imagine you did. I sent out an alert on anyone with your name in a five mile radius to be handed in to me. Though you were supposed to remain unhurt."

Sherlock's gaze hones in on his injuries. "Who did this to you?" His voice is soft, but his eyes are glinting. The man raises a gloved hand to his torn arm and John hisses, "Don't touch me."

Sherlock stops, and looks him in the eye. His lips turn cruelly mocking. "I think we're well past that particular argument, aren't we John?"

The two are torn out of their miniature battle when Angelo huffs out a pained laugh, "Cor blimey mate, if you'd told me the Devil himself was on your heels, I'd have at least gotten my gun."

Sherlock's eyes flicker with recognition. "Ah, Angelo. I was unaware that you were released from prison."

"No you weren't you bastard," growls the man. He lumbers to his feet, and several guns are suddenly pointed at his head. Angelo pays them no heed. "Five bloody years I spent in the pit, no thanks to you."

Sherlock shrugs, rolling his eyes. "Hardly my fault the police were incompetent enough to pin you for the murder. Though apparently they did work it out. Just five years too late."

"You were the one who bloody well staged the whole thing! You could have busted me out at any time! But you left me to rot! I trusted you, you slimy git!"

"Yes," Sherlock sneers, "What an amazing sense of character you have." Angelo's face twists, and he steps forward. The guns cock, and John shouts.

"Wait! Stop!" John realizes too late that it was a mistake to say anything. Sherlock's gaze sears into him. His eyes run over the expression that John is too slow in tamping down. Sherlock stands straighter, and dread drops John's heart into his stomach.

"Oh, I see." Sherlock says, softly, dangerously. John begins chanting a prayer in his head. _Save him. You've saved me enough times. Save Angelo._

"Did you help him, Angelo? Did you bring in poor, pathetic John to try and atone for all of your cock-ups?" The man is turning slowly to the chef, and John is struggling in earnest. "Did you make John's attentions sway from me, the man who was hunting him down to bring him back home? Did you give him hope that everything could be alright? Away from everything? Away from me?"

Angelo, pale face twisted in pain, stands straighter, clutching the sluggishly bleeding shoulder, "Yeah, I did. And you know what? I'd have taken the poor bastard to the ends of the Earth to get him away from you if I'd known that's what he was running from."

"Sherlock," John pleads, "for God's sake, don't. Just leave him alone. Please." He can give him this. He can beg for this. If this is the last thing he does, he needs to save this man's life.

Sherlock glances back at John. He relishes in the pleading request from his good doctor. So desperate to save those he deems worthy. Well, John did say please, and good behavior deserves a reward. Sherlock nods curtly, "Very well John."

John sags in relief and resignation, ready to be taken back to whatever new hell awaits him. From one breath to the next, Sherlock pulls out a small gun and shoots Angelo in the head three times. Then again, Sherlock thinks as the man's body falls with a heavy thump to the floor, John's behavior hasn't exactly been exemplary has it?


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Mental Torture

John watches the bloodied corpse slump for a stunned second, then he's spitting words at Sherlock. He's straining against the two men keeping him from clawing the bastard's eyes out. "You fucking son of a bitch!"

Sherlock looks calmly back towards him, and the indifferent expression furthers John's rage. "I'll kill you!" John swears, ignoring the warning bells in his head that try to tell him that this is probably the last thing he should say to this psychopath, "I'll fucking kill you I promise!"

"Tremendously ambitious of you, John." Sherlock mocks, casually storing the gun back in his pocket. He snaps his gloved fingers, and a few of the men are hauling the body away. John watches the trailing smear of red in despair. He highly doubts the man will be properly buried. John's not religious, but he is a man of principle. The least Angelo deserves is to be put to rest.

"But I believe, you will be far too preoccupied with what's in store for you to even think about plotting your pointless revenge." Sherlock's standing close, arms crossed, looming over John's restrained form. A juvenile intimidation tactic. The words give John far more apprehension than the stance.

"The police are already on their way," John spurts. He realizes that maybe he should've kept silent about that, but it's too late now, "You won't be able to-"

"Oh," Sherlock interrupts, "you mean this?" He pulls out a small recorder from one of his numerous pockets, and hits a button.

A tinny "Police, what's your emergency?" comes out of the speakers, and John tastes true fear in the back of his throat. He hears his own voice echoed back at him, but John's mind is too blanked out to focus.

"Bit tricky," Sherlock says as the recording keeps playing, "trying to hack in to the police response line without my brother noticing. It ended up adding an extra ten minutes to your escape time. Thankfully, I didn't have to filter through many calls before yours. And once the issue was ordered for a patrol car to be brought here, I sent out a fake responding message that a nearby police car was on its way. And if you're wondering if someone else will call the police thanks to all of the unnecessary noise my men caused, don't bother. We're in the middle of London, and all a nearby pedestrian heard was some shattering glass. And you obviously understand that my gun has a silencer, so unless they have rather extraordinary hearing, they wouldn't have heard your friend die so nobly."

Sherlock sneers the last word, and that snaps John out of the sinking haze Sherlock's speech has inspired. The casual mocking of the only good man that he's met in days makes John do something he hasn't done since he was a child. He spits in Sherlock's face.

The glob sticks to Sherlock's cheekbone, right underneath his widened eyes. Carefully, Sherlock dabs his finger to the spot, pulling back to stare at it. The men on either side of John tense, not looking forward to being caught in the crossfire. Sherlock looks back at John, watches those sharp eyes burn with untempered hatred. There's not a single trace of fear. "Remarkable," Sherlock murmurs.

John feels the sting on his cheek before he sees Sherlock's hand move. His head whips to the side from the backhand, and he bites back the grunt that threatens to spill forward. "But intolerable," Sherlock ends. He flicks away the rest of the spittle and nods to one of the men beside John. "I'd keep your tongue behind your teeth if I were you," the madman advises.

John has one second of pure panic before a stun gun is pressed to his side. Agony flares along his nerves, and he passes out without another thought.

***

John can steadily feel himself coming back to consciousness. As he runs his dry tongue over his teeth, he's relieved to not feel any blood. The thought of which forces back the memory of Angelo's brains splattering out of the back of his head. _Stop_ , he tells himself. He begins the breathing exercises he used to do for when the nightmares became memories. That's when he notices something's wrong.

His breath is echoed back at him, almost instantaneously. The heat fans across his face in a cloistering caress. John thought his eyes had been closed this whole time, but he realizes he's had his eyes opened ever since he remembered Angelo. It's pitch black in front of him. John moves his hands, which were lying straight beside his body. He's able to get them about a foot in front of him before they're stopped by a solid wall. Cold sweat breaks across John's forehead.

He presses against the wall, testing its firmness. It's metal, and it jangles a bit when he pushes, but there's no give. Something else besides the door makes it rattle whenever he presses on it. He moves his hands up, and they stop at a tiny ceiling just barely above his head. Pressing them to either side is pointless, he has less space on his sides than he does right in front of him.

John prides himself on his night vision, but absolutely nothing has cleared in the past minute he's spent evaluating his new surroundings. It's pitch black. John feels panic creeping up his spine, which spurs him to slam his hands against the wall again. Again, it jangles, and suddenly John has a horrible sense of vertigo. The loud noise had fucked with his absent sense of direction. He presses more cautiously against the cold steel. It warms to his touch. It suddenly hits John. What the shape of the box feels like, and he can't stop the comparison rushing to the forefront of his mind.

He's in a tiny box. Darkness surrounding him. He's in a coffin. Fear skitters like spiders across his brain, and he can't stop the shuddering breaths that escape him.

And if that weren't goddamn enough, John shifts his body again to be sure, he's naked. The hysterical laugh he huffs out at that briefly scatters the spiders. The giggle doesn't stop for a little bit, and John clamps a hand to his mouth to tamper it down. The action of halting his breath jerks into awareness that he might not have a lot of air left.

John pushes harder against the prison, desperation making his limbs strain against the firm resistance. He keeps pushing and pushing, but nothing gives. He bangs his fists, then tries to jerk his whole body against the surface. The motion sends a wave of dizziness through his skull, or is that the lack of air? John really can't tell down from up anymore, and its the loss of perception that makes him really crack.

The sudden sensation of drifting reminds John of a story he'd heard in class. Of a woman nailed into a box with her bastard baby son, tossed into the sea to die. Not really a story to tell kids, now that he thinks about it. His own box is rocking steadily, and John thinks he can hear waves. In the back of his mind is the doctor and the soldier, telling him this is textbook sensory deprivation hallucinations. But he really doesn't care right now.

The thought of drifting endlessly through the vast emptiness that is the ocean sends him spiraling downwards. Nothing but him, the mercy of Mother Nature (which, let's be honest, she's not exactly known for), and the sturdiness of his cage. He doesn't think about dignity. He doesn't think about staying strong. He doesn't even think about preserving air. John just screams. And screams. And screams.

It all echoes back.


	23. Chapter 23

The box rests against the wall in Sherlock's room. Normally, Sherlock rarely frequents it. Now he has barely left for meals. Having those delivered to the door took care of that problem.

There is a tiny camera fitted with night vision and a microphone in front of John's face on the inside. There is a live stream, much like last time. Sherlock had finally been fortunate enough to watch John's realization, then his attempt at keeping it together, then his despair second by glorious second. It is a shame the color is affected, and he can't see John's expressive blue eyes, but it is a small price to pay.

John's screams had eventually dissolved into whimpers, finally easing the strain on Sherlock's laptop speakers. The tears had been hard to make out from the fuzzy quality of the video, but they were still there. Sherlock reached out a hand and touched it to his screen. He traced the faint lines of wetness with his fingertips, and Sherlock feels a pang that he recognizes as longing.

He should be near John now. Should be able to lick and catalog those tears at leisure, to either restrict their flow or induce more. But he can't. This is as much a punishment for him as it is for John.

John's been conscious for two hours now. His eyes flicker over nothing, and he jerks at the slightest hint of noise. Though it's all in his head. The box is soundproofed enough that a bomb squad could crash through his door and John would be none the wiser. Sherlock's copying the results of his 'Blood Patterns Under Duress' experiment between watching John on his computer. Unannounced as usual, Jim comes striding in with his tamed tiger close behind.

"Thought I'd pop by," Jim explains, though it's hardly necessary. Not like he ever needs an excuse to barge in. "How's the little puppy doing?" Sherlock idly wonders when Jim had started calling him 'puppy'. Sherlock doubts John is a man who appreciates pet names, but it's something to file away for future reference.

"Hallucinating, looks like," Sherlock responds, not really giving Jim much more than that. He's not the one who wanted a social visit. Jim can either talk himself to death or leave.

"You should turn him on his back," rumbles a voice. Sherlock looks up from his computer, slightly shocked. Jim is also staring at Sebastian, the discharged soldier is looking at the box.

Jim's face twitches, and Sherlock doesn't envy what Sebastian might have to face tonight. "Sebby, dear," Jim croons, "did I give you permission to speak?"

"Actually," Sherlock intervenes, "some first hand accounts would be rather useful." Jim gives Sherlock a sharp look, but sighs his resignation.

"Damage is done," Jim groans, "go ahead Sebby. Tell Sherlock what he needs to know."

"You need to shift his position every few hours," the man still hasn't looked away from the cage, "otherwise the blood will pool and he'll get sores. And it'll disorient the fuck out of him, if you're interested." Seb knows he is, he's just playing dumb.

Sherlock nods, filing it away, "Anything else?"

Sebastian is silent for a few seconds, but he continues. "If you don't want him to go mad, I'd suggest pulling him out after two days. Any longer and who knows what he'll be scared of."

Sherlock has an idea that his John might become nervous about being submersed into water after this. His ramblings had involved something about the ocean.

"Thank you Sebastian, that is quite helpful," Sherlock murmurs, dismissing the man as background once again. His attention is on John again, who appears to be trying to push on the prison again. How adorable.

When he looks back up, Jim and Seb have already left. Jim probably became preoccupied with his punishment for Sebby. It's not everyday the man directly disobeys him.

He is not on a boat. He knows this. He's in some kind of...box or coffin or something. He's not in the middle of the sea. But that still doesn't stop him from shouting in fear when he distinctly feels his prison moving. Thoughts run rampant in his head, of crashing waves and being overwhelmed with water. It wouldn't take much, out on the open sea. Just a tiny hole, and no one would be able to help him as his prison filled and sunk to the bottom of the deep. Then the shifting abruptly stops.

Now John really has no idea what position he's in. Not that he did before, but the shifting has dizzied him more than ever. He does know he's not face down, the gravity would've had him pressed against the door. John touches his face to center himself. He's not on his front. That's a place to start. Slowly, John brings himself back from the hallucinatory panic for a short time.

He thinks about what it had been like to taste several glorious hours of freedom. To think that he could've run away from all of this. It hurts more than he expected. John chokes on his stuffy air. John obviously has no sense of time, but he has assured himself that he would've suffocated by now if he didn't have some source of air. Probably a hole poked at the top. Like the bugs he and Harry used to collect as muddy kids.

Oh God, Harry.

John's shocked that it's taken him this long to think about her. But, to be fair to himself, he's had a lot on his mind. John remembers the cold, possessive look in Sherlock's eyes before he'd turned to shoot Angelo. If that was just for a man taking pity on him, what will Sherlock do to his sibling? And he must know. He must. The man knows everything. The fact that he has a sibling would be trivial to him. Will Sherlock hurt Harry? Kill her? Just to make sure that there's no one he can turn to?

The thought spends him spiraling back down into panic. No. He can't hurt Harry. He can't hurt his sister. John starts banging the surface again, "Sherlock! Don't hurt her! You hear me? Don't you lay a finger on her!"

Which, John thinks, may be the wrong thing to do. Should he fake apathy to the fate of his sister? It was his protest that got Angelo killed in the first place. _Can't protect anybody can you?_ says the Voice. John clutches his head. There's nothing to concentrate on to ease the torments from his own mind. Nothing but blackness and his shaking breath. _Angelo's dead. Harry's probably the same. Or worse. And all you can do is make things worse._

"Shut up," John says, out loud. What's the point of trying not to seem crazy? "It's not my fault."

 _We both know that's not true. It is your fault. You walked into Angelo's life. You made him important. Sherlock would've just carted your sorry arse off and left Angelo to his own devices. Instead he shot him. Let his brains paint the wall. Because you cared. Now, now he's going after Harry. Because you just had to open your big mouth and threaten. What good could you possibly do? You're stuck here. Nothing but yourself to keep company, and we both know how unbelievably dull you are._ The Voice was starting to sound a lot like Sherlock.

John didn't even try to make it quiet anymore. What was the point if what it was saying was true?


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Humiliation Involving Urination (I'm sorry guys)

The Voice had died down a while ago now. Or was it just a few minutes? Hard to tell. With literally nothing to do, John tapped out rhythms on his cell door. First Beatles songs, then just idle compositions. They helped to pass the endless amount of time he had now.

As time ticked by, John started noticing his sweltering need for water. The coffin was stifling, and his sweat had been running in rivulets across his chest and back. Every pant for air was a new torture. At least in his old cell, he had never wanted for thirst. It was now only becoming slightly frightening that he was even making comparisons.

His thirst grew and grew, until John was terrified that Sherlock was going to leave him in here just to suffer and die. He tried to scream, but a choked cough was the only thing he could manage. Each new trickle of sweat was him mentally cataloging how much inner reserves he had left before dehydration kicked in. Then, mercifully, a tiny door with an outward hinge opened. No light was admitted inside. Whatever world was outside of his cage, it was dark as well.

Something started dripping onto his face, and before he could register what angle he was in, a tube was placed directly on top of his lips. Eagerly, John wrapped around it and sucked. It was much like the bottles in hamster cages. The tube was plastic, and only admitted the glorious fluid whenever John pulled from it. Greedily, he kept sucking, only stopping for air. When he'd emptied the bottle of the last drop, it was pulled away.

John nearly made a pleading noise, but caught himself just in time. _Just ask, he always gives when you ask._ John still refused. The tiny door shut again, and the cool air was quickly overcome by John's body heat. John tried really hard not to miss it.

But with the passage of time, came the insistent need pressing against his bladder. The sweat which rolled down his back just made it worse. John shifted, back scraping against the metal. He tried to concentrate on anything else, feeling himself swell on the inside. When the urgency tipped into desperation, John began banging on the door again. He needed out. He needed release. God, this was too much. Was Sherlock really going to put him through this?

 _Of course he is, you're the one who ran from him._ John shook, and a tiny whimper escaped his throat. He couldn't hold it anymore.

The smell of it was overpowering, and John hysterically realized that he'd been lying on his back this whole time. He could tell from the way the puddle moved down his hips and traveled behind him. Humiliated tears ran down the corners of his eyes, and John covered his face with his hands. For a few minutes he laid in his own filth. Desperately trying not to shift and feel the puddle splash across his skin.

Suddenly, the whole door to his prison was opened. Central air cooled the sweat on his skin, and made the warmth of his piss all the more pronounced. It was still incredibly dark. Before he could react, John felt a pair of hands pull him gently but quickly from his cage. He could feel the combination of his own fluids run down his back to his calves as he stood up. John couldn't hold back the whimper of shame at this.

The hands holding his shoulders seemed to become more gentle. Apparently not as blind as John, he was led from what felt like plush carpet to cold tile. John had a moment of hope that he was back in his old cell. That his lesson had been learned. But the hands still didn't let him go. He was stopped, then his leg was carefully positioned to take a step upward.

Definitely not his cell then, his floor had been entirely even. Including the bathroom section. Why hadn't his captor just asked him to take a step up? He doesn't question it though. He doesn't want to be punished further for talking.

He brings his other foot up without being asked, and is rewarded with a praising swipe across his shoulders. The hand remains, while the other one turns something, judging by the sounds. Suddenly, John is being drowned.

He splutters, backs up, panicking. Not this, oh God not this. The hands hold his elbows, keep him from leaving. It takes a few shaking seconds to realize that John is not in fact drowning. He's standing in a shower. More embarrassment heats his face, but the man (Sherlock, obviously) doesn't comment on his breakdown. He just holds him, letting him be washed by the spray. He turns him around after a few minutes on his front, letting the worst of it finally be cleared away.

Sherlock takes a step back, but is halted when John immediately latches on to wrist with one hand. Sherlock checks to see if John's vision has improved, but no. He's still unfocused, but his eyes are pinpointed to the approximation of his location. He doesn't want to be left alone. Wonderful.

Sherlock gives a reassuring squeeze to John's shoulders, but still backs away. John stumbles forward for a step, seeking out the only human interaction he's had in quite a number of hours. But nothing's there. He gropes, not leaving the soothing rush of water, but no hands reach back.

Sherlock has left the bathroom area. He softly closes the door behind him so John won't hear himself being locked in. He goes over to the entrance of his bedrooms, and allows the two minions to enter his rooms. Without question or dalliance, they set to work cleaning and sterilizing the box with the cleaning supplies they have brought. Sherlock's night vision is superior, so they have to work with special goggles. Absolute darkness is absolutely crucial at this stage.

Sherlock goes back in to the bathroom to check on John. He hasn't moved from the shower spot. He's rooted, ears straining for the slightest hint of noise. Sherlock strides over, letting his presence be known to not startle John. The man immediately turns his attention to the direction of the noise. Sherlock can't stop the thrill of finally having John's mind focused solely on him.

Gently, he reaches out with his bare hands, and grasps John's shoulders. Although the man has only been imprisoned for a short time, the stress has taken its tole. His bones are slightly more pronounced, and there's a weariness to John that was never there before. Sherlock loves it.

Sherlock gently guides him out of the bathroom again. This time, John is standing as close as he can, gripping his now soaking shirt with one hand. He hasn't had any interaction besides his own tortured mind. He can give himself this. It's not conceding. It isn't. _Keep telling yourself that._

Sherlock's led him back into the main area of his bedroom. The minions have already left, job finished and well done. Sherlock considers giving them a small raise as a thank you. Only if they're quiet about what they were asked to do.

As they step closer to the box, John finally registers what's about to happen. He tenses in Sherlock's grip, and starts to pull away. He can't go back. Not in there. Not alone with the shadows again. John doesn't even try to stop the whimper that comes from his throat. A firm grip wraps around his waist to pull him closer. John struggles more. He can't go back in. He won't. Goddammit he won't.

"John." The doctor startles at the use of his name. It's the first voice besides his own that he's heard in ages. The deep voice is edged in warning, and John is close to desperate to hearing it again. But nothing else is said. His name is the only warning he's getting. It's not like John can put up much of a fight at this point anyway. Fighting him now will probably lead to more time in that tiny hell. Or something worse.

John slumps forward, not saying anything. Frustration closes his throat and makes his eyes sting. He's reassured from the hand around his waist slowly stroking the small of his back in circles.

They get close to the box, still on its back. John can smell that it's been thoroughly cleaned, which is a relief from something he forgot to be worried about. He moves to put his foot in without being asked, but Sherlock stops him. Hope springs into his throat, but it dies when a blindfold is slipped over his eyes. John's more than a little confused, it's not like he can even see a hand in front of his face.

Sherlock squeezes John's arm in a silent warning not to move. John hesitates, but nods in the end. Sherlock reluctantly moves away. It's been heady, having John's full attention and need. He wants it to continue forever. And he will. If everything goes accordingly.

He switches on the light to the room. He's aware John knows that there's light, even with the thick blindfold, from the way he flinches. Sherlock waits for him to disobey, for him to tear away the blindfold and finally see after indeterminable hours of darkness. But he doesn't. John still stands with his hands clenched at his sides. The sight makes Sherlock want to end the trial now, but he can't. John's still not ready.

Sherlock gathers all of his supplies, and goes back to John. During John's imprisonment, he has not only been working. Sherlock has also been researching. Extensively. He could've just left John in the box like usual, taken him out periodically for breaks. But that leaves too much to chance. John needs isolation. The physical needs of his body had been an oversight. One Sherlock intends to rectify.

John jumps when he feels something being wrapped around his waist. He frowns behind the cloth. It feels, like a belt. Except that its somewhat elastic, and hugs his pelvic bones without a buckle. John knows better than to ask what it is. Something plastic crinkles as it is clipped onto place beside his hip.

A picture is starting to form in his head, and it becomes crystal clear when a dollop of cold lube is placed directly on the head of his penis. John can't stop the small "Don't," that escapes his lips. Or his legs from backing away just to be stopped by the wall of the the box against his calves. Sherlock moves forward on his knees, and grips John's arse painfully. John hisses from the sudden pain, and the message is received loud and clear. Don't move again. 

John wills his body to stop shuddering, and the tremors travel and concentrate on his hands. Sherlock gives his bum a soft pat, then goes back to lubing his urethra. At least he's doing this with plenty of lighting. And John knows that Sherlock's probably not a doctor by any stretch of the word, but, well. John doesn't _trust_ him exactly, but the man is incredibly thorough. When Sherlock is satisfied with the amount of lubrication, he takes the catheter at the end of the bag, uncaps the end, and gently glides it into the top of John's penis.

The sensation is more than a little weird for John. It borders on the edge of painful. An area that has never been penetrated before is suddenly being filled. He doesn't move though. Just breathes unsteadily through his nose as the soft tube travels through his urinary tract. Sherlock keeps adding more lubrication as he sees fit until John can barely register just how much is being fed into him.

Sherlock finally lets go when he reaches the end, and John lets out a soft, "God," of relief. He still feels weirdly penetrated, a constant ache at the end and base of his penis. If he hadn't just emptied his bladder, he would think he'd have to go again. A slight shift moves the thing inside of him, and John tenses in fear. He's a doctor, and Sherlock has performed admirably for what is (presumably) his first time. But images of tearing and a cracked tube still bounce around in his skull.

Sherlock places a grounding hand on his shoulder, and John breathes again. This time, Sherlock does help to guide him back into the cage. Each step is slow and careful, and eventually, after much wincing and soft gasps, John is lying again on his back. John waits for the door to shut, ready to be thrust back into his mind again. But nothing happens. There is no clang of steel, and John begins to get fidgety.

Long fingers reach under his blindfold and pull it gently off his head. John squeezes his eyes shut, the redness behind his eyelids almost too much. He receives no prompting from Sherlock, so he hesitantly opens his eyes. John gets one overwhelming and welcome vision of brightness, and a tall silhouetted figure.

Then Sherlock moves, and John can't help but cry out, "NO! DON'T!", but his words are abruptly cut off when the door clangs shut. The lock clicking into place is horrendously loud.

Sherlock hears the banging and screams of desperation from his speakers. The door doesn't budge an inch, giving no indication that there's a man at the end of his wits inside. Sherlock doesn't really know why he took the blindfold off at the last second. The original plan had been to be merciful and let John take the blindfold off himself once he had been shut away. Though, judging by the smile that splits Sherlock's face into a gruesome simile of a mask, he had probably done it simply to hear John beg.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Humping, Hand Jobs, and a bit more bathroom play but not as bad as last time I swear it.

John has time to weigh what the worst part about this whole experience is. Is it the cloistering stink of his own sweat and breath? Feeling nothing, no fresh breeze or the softness of cotton, just tacky metal on sticky skin? No. 

Is it the darkness? Forgetting sunlight? The feeling that he won't be able to turn a light off without having a panic attack? No. 

Is it his withering muscles? Not being able to move anything but his hands? Leaving him stir crazy and banging on the walls just so he has some kind of release? No. 

Is it the fact that he has a urethra up his prick? That Sherlock controls even that part of him? He can't even piss for himself in this hell. Is it the loss of those small indignities that make him human? No.

It's the hallucinations. They started off as his nightmare of being left to drift at sea, but they've evolved the longer he's been stuck in here. They all blend together, creating a melting pot of crazy. At one point, John remembers that he had sunk under the ocean. He'd begun to panic, thinking he was going to drown, but he'd been greeted by a school of magical talking fish that helped him breathe underwater. After that, they'd all burst into a chorus number that outmatched The Little Mermaid.

John's not entirely sure if he'd actually been singing. But the thought had made him dissolve into jittery giggles for at least five minutes. The thing he hates the most about the visions is that he can't tell if he's asleep or awake in them. Sleeping is a passage of time, being aware is a way to record time. He can no longer tell if he's in the dream world or the waking anymore. The only time he's sure of either is when he can feel the metal of his coffin once more.

What makes it even more unbearable is the fact that the hallucinations aren't always frolicking with sea creatures. Sometimes he is actually drowning. Or being crushed to death by some forgotten deep sea monster. Other times he's back in Afghanistan, unable to help anyone in this box. But he can hear the war waging outside, good people under fire, his friends being blown to bits. And no matter how loud he screams, or how much he begs, no one will kill him. 

John's pretty sure Afghanistan is always a dream, but it's becoming very hard to tell. The overlap results in a constant fatigue. He can't fall asleep if he's not even sure if he's dreaming. The exhaustion couples with the restlessness to form some awful cocktail from hell. John gets an image of Sherlock holding an extremely fruity drink to him, filled with blood and topped off with an umbrella made with a tiny spinal cord and stretched skin. John goes off into a giggle fit some more. 

Some time later (no point in estimating) the tiny door in front of his mouth opens up again. The fresh air is just as wonderful as it was the last time. John opens his mouth, compliant, waiting for the water bottle. Instead a spoon filled with hot oatmeal is slipped past his mouth. It's such a surprise that John splutters, and most of it falls onto his chest. 

He uses his fingers to wipe it up and press it back into his mouth. Now that the shock is gone, his hunger has come roaring back. Even though John had never really noticed it in the first place. Too busy on hearing not-really-there bombshells he supposes. 

The spoon is placed gently back against his lips, and John swallows the mouthful greedily. It's regular oatmeal, but there's hints of honey and chunks of walnuts for protein. At this point, John wouldn't care if it was cat food as long as it filled up his belly. Bite by bite, the weariness subsides, and John feels a little more human. Trapped, caged, and imprisoned, but human. He hears the spoon scraping the bowl for the last bite, and John lets it rest for a bit on his tongue before swallowing. 

The tiny opening closes, without a word from Sherlock. John heaves in a breath. Maybe it's this part that's the worst, when the door closes and he's back in his own little world again.  
When time passes again, John's squirming on his back. He has to use the bathroom again, though for an entirely different reason. He's been banging continuously on the door, though he doubts Sherlock either hears him or cares. God, he really doesn't want to do this here. Urinating is bad enough, but, _this,_?

Before John really has time to panic, the door is fully opened. It's still dark, in the office or home or wherever the hell he is. He's being led by his arm back to the bathroom. John's steps are more sure this time, but he still has to cling to Sherlock to support himself. His atrophy is taking its toll. John is set down on the cold porcelain of the loo, and his hand is placed over top of where the paper is. He hears retreating footsteps, but it's impossible to tell if Sherlock is still standing in the bathroom of if he's actually left. 

John shudders with embarrassed indecision, but he really doesn't have a choice does he? He does his business, cleans himself up, and flushes. Several seconds of being left alone in the wide, empty darkness. 

Then Sherlock is there, and he's kneeling down in front of John. It takes the man a stunned second to realize what he's doing. Slowly, ever so slowly, with lubricant liberally applied to the tip, the catheter is removed from John's body. The relief of that intrusion finally leaving his body makes him weak at the knees. Standing, Sherlock empties the bag into the toilet. John thinks that he's going to reinsert it again, but instead he's leading him to what John recognizes as the shower space. Sherlock lets go, leaves John to stand dead center under the faucet. The warm water is a blessing, and John just lets it wash over him. Lets it cleanse away his filth, his sweat, his tears. John feels clothed arms wrap around him from behind. Sherlock is getting absolutely drenched, but he doesn't seem to mind. 

He's just standing there, with his tall chest pressing the buttons into John's back. Tentatively, John raises his hands to caress Sherlock's arms. He's not sure why he's doing it. There's no end game. He's not planning to throw Sherlock onto the ground. He's not trying to seduce anybody. He just wants to touch, and be touched.

The hands grasp him a little tighter when John starts stroking. Slowly, one of the hands unwraps from around his midsection, and travels. Across his chest, across his nipples, his stomach, his navel. To John, it doesn't even feel like a lustful caress. It feels exploring, trying to map out John's body in complete darkness. It feels like the most intimate thing John's ever done. 

John shivers, and not entirely from apprehension. This time, the fingers are more intent. They reach John's prick, find it slowly filling up with blood. The other hand comes to rest on his hip, pulling him flush against Sherlock's front. John gasps when he feels the hardness pressing in the cleft of his arse. His mouth fills up with warm water, and he spits it out quickly. 

The touch along his cock is teasing, never fully stroking him, just ghosting up and down his shaft. It's still more than enough for John, who was unable to touch himself in that box. How could he, when touching more of his own clammy skin made him want to vomit?

The hand holding his hip moves down, to softly cup his balls. John moans, rolls his head back into Sherlock's shoulder. The man stiffens, then begins shifting back and forth across John's wet backside. Sherlock releases his own moan, gripping John's cock more firmly now. 

"God," John whispers, and it's barely heard past the splash of water. Up and down, Sherlock tightens his grip at the base, then loosens over the head. The water quickly wipes away any precome that emerges, but that doesn't stop Sherlock's fingers from trying to spread it across his shaft. John shifts, feeling his orgasm quickly rise from possible days without human contact. 

Sherlock fingers stroke under his perineum, and his hand fists over John's cock three times before John spurts with a soft, "Sherlock." The man is suddenly possessed, and he's gripping John's hips and thrusting against him with fierce abandon. 

John stumbles forward, and catches himself on the tiled wall in front of him. Sherlock spreads himself across John's back, his lips brushing his ear. Grunts and exhalations of air are the only indication John gets that he's even really enjoying himself. Sherlock humps him a few more times, then comes in his trousers with a tight, "John."

Sherlock slumps forward, careful not to put too much pressure on his weakened doctor. It had been too much, having him compliant, naked and wet. Leaning into his touch, when before he had been so defiant. Sherlock has less self control around this man than he can ever remember. How thrilling. 

Sherlock extends and arm, and shuts off the cooling water. Tenderly, he rises John from his leaned position into the wall. He turns the man around, grabs a towel from nearby, and proceeds to dry him off. John relaxes into the warmth and comfort the action gives him. 

When Sherlock is satisfied, he tosses the garment onto the ground. He slips out the sopping blindfold he'd left in his pocket, and places it over John's eyes. The man tenses, knowing what this means, but he makes no sound. When Sherlock reapplies the catheter, he's much more efficient. Still incredibly delicate and careful, but swifter. John's body is able to accept the invasion a little more easily. Another small victory, Sherlock smirks to himself. When everything is back, he turns off the lights, and leads John away. This time, when John knows how the night's going to end, he doesn't even stop walking. He just walks in stride with Sherlock. And the criminal knows it isn't defiance, or stubbornness that makes him walk in step. It's resignation. Sheer joy spreads through Sherlock's limbs, and he considers bringing John to bed proper. But, no. John's close, so wonderfully close. But he still has a bit to go before he's ready. 

John steps inside the box, only now realizing that it was standing right side up this time. He turns around, places his back against the wall. He's able to make out the shadow of Sherlock reaching for the door, and he has to ask. He has to. 

"How long are you going to keep me in here?" The shadow pauses, and the reply doesn't surprise him, but it fills him with horror all the same.

"A little bit longer, now." 

John bites his lip, and nods, even though the man probably can't see it. The door shuts, the lock slides into place. This time without the false hope of light. John's not sure if that's worse or better. He dreams of being under a waterfall.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Torture and Obsessive thoughts, because I thought we should really get a good look at Psychopathic!Sherlock

For Sherlock, his favorite thing about the box is control over John's time. Perhaps it should be watching John slowly break apart in his prison. Or being able to feed, water, and take care of John however much or little he wishes. But Sherlock has never had the power over someone's measure of minutes. So far, his John has been locked up for a total of thirty hours, just under Sebastian's warned maximum. But Sherlock can't help but edge just a little. He doesn't quite want to let go of this power over John just yet.

Sherlock's been finding new ways to make John's time tick by or move quickly. The first two bathroom breaks, he'd worried over giving John a sense of schedule. So the next time he'd fed John he'd slipped in a mild laxative. He'd timed it perfectly, and John's time sense had been cut in half without him ever knowing.

Which made it seem like a full day had passed by before Sherlock had taken him out again. It's always a test of his will, putting John back into the box. Each time John clutches a little tighter to him, silently begging to be set free, to come home. But John's still not ready quite yet. He's so very close though. Sherlock has him teetering on the edge of breaking, of complete and total compliance.

If he can keep John suspended on that edge for a little while longer, then John will know balance. He will know how much he irrevocably belongs to Sherlock, without having to break his soul. He will know how much Sherlock loves him, how much he cares. Why else would Sherlock go through all of this trouble in the first place? And what's the point of fighting that kind of devotion?

While the process of disciplining John has been heady, it is also exhausting. He gets his minimum of five hours sleep, and each time he wakes there's a jolt of uncertainty that John is not there. That he has escaped, or crumbled beneath the weight of his own mind. But a quick check on his laptop is all he needs to assure himself. Sherlock's not concerned at John's twitches from nothing, or his mumblings of nonsense. He was even amused when John had started humming and quietly singing to some ridiculous song Sherlock had never heard of.

The only time Sherlock will have cause to worry is when John completely stops reacting to his own mind. Sherlock distinctly remembers that as the time Sebastian had broken. When he'd stopped screaming, yelling, mumbling, or even glaring. The man had taken everything, from knives, whips, electrocution and solitary, in dead silence.

Besides the restless anxiety, the only downside is that Sherlock is bored between his interactions with John. Watching him blubber into one of his hallucinations is always a treat, but eventually John is always forced to pass out from nothing to do.

So it's actually a bit of a reprieve when Jim texts him.

_Need you to deal with uncooperative little worm._

_-Jim. XXX_

Sherlock can't be too accommodating, he did give Jim instructions not to bother him.

**You know I'm busy. Get one of your lackeys to do it. Or do it yourself. Or Sebastian. You always enjoy watching Sebastian work.**

**-SH**

_Sebby and I are busy._

_-Jim XXX_

**...Jim I've warned you not to text me when you're having intercourse.**

**-SH**

_It's why I didn't call love. Pretty please? He's hidden the files I need, trying to demand a price from me. Isn't it so cute when they think they have the upper hand? :)_

_-Jim XXX_

**And of course you and Sebastian are going to be too 'busy' all day to even look for it yourself.**

**-SH**

_On the nose darling. Pretty please with sugar? I know you're bored. Can only look at puppy's darling face for so long right?_

_-Jim XXX_

**...Fine.**

**-SH**

_You're a lifesaver sweetie! Oops, g2g. Sebby's getting a tad too uncomfortable. And impatient. The little roach is in Basement 1 Room C3. Toodles!_

_-Jim XXX_

Sherlock sighed, pocketing his phone. He didn't grab any supplies, assured that everything he would need would be in the room. Before locking his door behind him, he called out to John, "I'll be back soon."

He wasn't sure why he did that. Obviously John couldn't hear him. But it still filled him with warmth as he went off to work.

The room is set up as he always requires it. Absolutely impeccable, with every tool that he needs within easy reach.

The man he is to interrogate is stripped close to naked, his white briefs being the only thing that separate complete nudity. He's dangling in mid air over the grated drain. His arms are pulled up over his head, and he's been there for a while, the strain in his face is indicative of that. His feet are tightly chained to the floor, making him completely immobile for Sherlock's work.

It'd been a pain figuring out what position was ideal. The squirming became a bit dull after a while. This way, Sherlock has complete access to every part of a person's anatomy, and they can't move to disrupt him.

The man's eyes widen in understandable fear when Sherlock walks in. He does not have the time or the inclination to visit every minion in the facility, but he's heard the whispers. Of how the 'interrogations' that receive the rather creative treatment are always visited by a tall, pale man with dark hair and piercing eyes that know your soul.

The man makes the very stupid mistake of shifting in fear, pulling on his already exhausted muscles. He whimpers past the crude gag of white linen, the leftovers of his own torn shirt. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

He walks over to his 'work station'. On the table next to the gleaming instruments is a clipboard, with the man's recent medical history, and what exactly his 'crimes' are. There's also a few dirty tidbits about his past if Sherlock wants to delve into psychological warfare. But the man is hardly clever or interesting enough for that.

"Ah, good," Sherlock says, to himself, but loud enough for the man to hear him, "you don't have any diseases. Means I don't have to wear the goggles." He puts down the clipboard and dons thick scrubs, and full length blue latex gloves. He hates the outfit, but he hates bloodstains on expensive shirts even more. He could've changed, but one of Jim's lessons is that the first step of torture is to set the mood. Give off enough terrifying atmosphere, and the weak ones will already start confessing.

Apparently, the mixture of well tailored refinery and base protective gear is an unsettling one. And Sherlock doesn't attempt to fix what isn't broken. Also, the previous bloodstains are a nice touch.

Sherlock presses play on the iPod adapter, and Concerto No.3 in G Major for Violin by Johann Bach steadily fills the room. Another little detail to set the mood. The man has been watching him this whole time, his eyes never losing their round whites.

"I find that the human body is quite akin to a violin. So many different sounds, if one only knows how to play it correctly." His fingers dance over the varying tools, feeling the familiar heady rush of a life placed in his hands. A life he can manipulate entirely, before getting rid of another festering boil in human existence. Mentioning the violin makes him wonder if John is a fan of the instrument. If he would be interested in hearing Sherlock play, "Of course, one can not simply pick up a bow and become an expert."

Sherlock picks up a new set of pliers, inspecting the gleam from the fluorescent lights. The man is yelling behind his gag, thrashing even though it causes him intense pain.

"The musician must become dedicated to his work. He must practice diligently, know and love only the instrument he plays." He puts down the pliers, and picks up a blow torch.

He imagines using a smaller, more delicate tool on John. Scar tattoos have become increasingly popular in the States, and wouldn't that just fit John beautifully? A wound made from fire, to match his inextinguishable soul. Sherlock's initials would be a good place to start. If he's careful, he might not even make irreparable damage to the nerve endings. 

"He must practice up to his capacity, then beyond his limits if he ever wants to become a renowned player." Sherlock moves his attention to a still packaged scalpel. He peels back the wrapping, letting the glare dance off of the fresh steel. Thoughts of slicing John, with dozens of little tiny cuts that would barely scar, make him inhale sharply.

"And don't worry, you're not in the incompetent hands of a novice," Sherlock turns and walks slowly towards the screaming man, "I have had a lot of practice."

He places the blade directly underneath the man's left pectoral muscle, drawing a thin line. Blood spills slowly from the wound, the pattern sliding like rain on glass. He cuts two parallel lines down on either side in equal length. Carefully, Sherlock places the blade between skin and fat. Edging around muscle, Sherlock cuts at the skin until the small patch is left flapping against his side.

His work is incredibly delicate, and the wound leaks blood enough to cover his whole left torso, but not enough that he'll bleed out for some time. The muscle glistens in stunning colors of pink and red, looking viscous in the light. Sherlock touches the wound reverently with his gloved hands. Looking up, he notices the man has been sobbing, and has soiled himself in his underpants. Typical. Ruining his fun with useless blubbering.

Sherlock sighs, beginning to cut little random marks into the man's thigh. The man actually _squeaks_. John wouldn't be this boring. But he can't skin John. He wouldn't be able to mark him if he didn't have any canvas to work with. Though, maybe a small patch. Something he can keep framed or preserved somewhere. Maybe even a tiny part of the bullet wound. Sherlock shivers. They'll have to work up to it.

It's when Sherlock has gotten bored with the thigh that he notices that the man is actually trying to form words. He stares at the man's mouth, trying to figure out what the hell is so important that he would be trying to distract him. Oh, right.

"Oh, I already know where you're hiding the files. The gag is so I don't have to listen to you plead just yet."

The man's eyes fill with horror and confusion. "The file had some not entirely useless information on you. About the home you'd been abused in before you ran away when you were sixteen. It's been abandoned, a perfect place to hide something temporarily. A little too obvious in that it's somewhere you'd never want to go again. Jim really could've solved this himself if he ever bothered to check reports."

He digs the instrument in a little deeper than intended in annoyance. "Oops," he says to himself, "went a little flat there." The man is _still_ blathering. Trying to bargain and plead his way to freedom now that he's lost the game. How dull.

"You're really here because I'm a bit bored, but not to worry. After I'm through with you, I have a date." He grins in a way that would make the man cower in a corner if he had the use of his limbs. "So I'm going to make this a little quicker than I normally do, but enough that John can stir in his own sweat for a little longer." He touches a bloodied hand to his chin in thought.

"Four hours," he says with finality, "that should be sufficient." He looks up at the man's face again, and sees him sobbing again. He drags his fingers gratingly across the exposed piece of muscle. The man can't even get in enough breath to scream.

"Good God, you're more annoying than usual. I _have_ been out of the game for too long." He flips the scalpel along his fingers as he goes back to his station. He picks up a pair of gardening shears and clicks it a few times for sadistic emphasis.

"Let's get rid of that useless tongue, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I think I have issues.


	27. Chapter 27

_He's not coming back. He's left you to die. You're all alone. Trapped, cornered, all you can do is breathe and die from dehydration. He's left you. You're alone._

Stop. Just stop.

_Why would he want you anyway? Broken little toy soldier that can't even put up a decent fight. You're alone. You're always alone. You'll **die** alone._

Not true. It's not true.

_Where is he then? How long have you been here? Waiting him for to take pity and feed you, water you, change you like the pathetic pet you are._

Please, I can't. No more.

The Voice stops, but it's replaced by something else. It's dark here. So dark and so very damp. It's cloistering, choking. He can't breathe. He feels death circle around his chest and squeeze like a long forgotten creature of the sea.

Squeezing, breaking, smothering. He tries to fight it, to break the hold, to squirm out of its grip. But it only clenches tighter, and John can't move at all. He bangs his hand against it, slams his whole body into the motion. But then he's lost in the void, swirling endlessly with no one there to catch him. His voice rasps out to scream, but it's lost in the invisible bubbles of tar that fill his lungs and stain his soul.

He's trapped. He needs out. He's dying. Please, God. Everything is just so **empty.**

Help. Help me, please. Somebody, anybody.

Sherlock.

Suddenly, air.

***

When John starts to awaken, he thinks he's still in the box, but that his subconscious had finally taken pity on him.

It's still dark, but he can distinguish shapes. Lumps of something in the pitch he can't quite identify. He's still naked, but everything is soft and yielding instead of unrelenting metal. When John breathes in, he gets cool air and fresh linen, not his own musk and sweat. He runs a hand down himself, and finds the waist strap and catheter gone. When he reaches his hands out into the black, he's met with infinite space, not solid wall.

It's enough to make a grown soldier sob.

"John?" A strange hand is on his shoulder, and John jerks back. The sheets get crumpled and tangled beneath him, and an extremely quiet and small part of him mentions on how this puts him at a tactical disadvantage for easy movement.

The hand leaves, but the voice continues, "My sincerest apologies. I didn't mean to startle you."

_He's broken me down into a shell, but he didn't mean to spook me._

That's utterly hilarious.

John releases some broken sound from his throat that used to be a laugh. It sets off a spark within his taxed mind and body that makes him sob into the Egyptian cotton.

Tentatively, the hand returns to rest against his turned shoulder. Slowly, Sherlock begins moving the hand in small circles, feeling the breaths wrack through John's body. He moves on to his back, the warm pressure traveling from John's shoulders to the middle of his back. Trying to sooth him as Sherlock would a skittish animal.

John gets lost in the motion, and he's too exhausted to even pretend like he doesn't find it comforting. Like it isn't something he's been craving ever since his shower. With the tears still soaking his pillow, he falls back to sleep.

When John wakes up again, he's a little more in control of himself. It's still dark in the room, but it's far from the oppressive black of his cage. He wonders if there are any windows in here, there's no escaping cracks of sunlight. Or maybe it's just night outside.

He turns his face back into his pillow, but he's no longer tired. His muscles still have a bone deep ache from being stuck in one position for too long, but his mind is no longer humming with anxiety or restlessness. Everything is just, quiet.

He sighs, the breath ghosting off of his sheets and escaping into the air. He'll never take the term 'breathing room' for granted ever again. There's a click from behind him, and warm light chases away some of the shadows. John doesn't turn toward it, though he longs to. He knows who's here, and John's not quite ready to face _him_ yet.

The lamp only illuminates the bed, showing that the covers are an impersonal, bleached white. The light doesn't even span the whole length of the mattress. John could probably roll several times and still not fall off. Why the hell would you make a bed this big in the first place? The side suddenly dips, and John tenses.

"If it's too much, I can turn down the light," Sherlock's voice seems to fill the empty room. Slight panic grips his heart, and John shakes his head. Already, he knows the full glare will be too much for his eyes, but he can't handle the absolute darkness again. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"John," the voice is questioning, and Sherlock turns John's unresisting body to face him. The man blocks most of the light, so John can't make out his face from the shadow. He blinks up at the looming form, idly wondering what exactly Sherlock plans to say.

"I, I don't expect you to be...forgiving, for what has happened over the last two days." Jesus, it's felt like two years, "But, I need you to know why I did this," fingers dance over his skin in nervous strokes, "It wasn't curiosity John, or cruelty. I didn't want you to go away again. And this was the only way to make sure."

His voice sounds so lost, as if he's doubted that this 'punishment' was a good idea at all. John remembers a sadistically grinning face in blinding light, and he shudders. He doesn't think Sherlock is lying to him right now, when he says that he thought this was the best option available, but if Sherlock says he didn't enjoy it then he's the worst liar John's ever known.

"I need to know, John," the voice has an edge of desperation, and he grips John's shoulder in a way that's slightly painful. John doesn't even flinch.

"I need to know that you won't ever leave me again." Silence is Sherlock's answer. John breathes through his nose, looking for something to say.

Nothing. No anger. No sadness. No quips. No denials. No screams. No sobs.

John has absolutely nothing to say to the man who has taken everything from him. Honestly, he just wants to go back to sleep.

Sherlock moves, and sheer panic and fear fill John up like a balloon. In hindsight, the man was probably just shifting to get more comfortable. Or getting up to take a piss.

But to John, in that instant, Sherlock was moving to place him back in the box. All because John hasn't responded to him. So John replies to Sherlock's answer. He's still got self-preservation left, then. Because John can't go back. There will be nothing left if he does.

John reaches up behind Sherlock's head, gripping the back of his skull. Sherlock tenses, thinking he's grossly miscalculated and John is about to try and snap his neck. But instead the soldier surges up while pulling down, squeezes his eyes shut, and their lips smash together with clicks of teeth.

Sherlock's mind stutters to a glorious pause.

_John. Oh, John. You don't know how dangerous it is that you continue to surprise me._

Sherlock leans down, eyes shuttering closed, reciprocating the unexpected kiss. One hand supports his weight, the other moves and caresses John's hair. His mind is on sensory overload. John's tacky scalp give him a bath later, his sweaty skin, the press of John's firm lips against his more supple ones. Sherlock darts out his tongue, tastes salt, and then John gloriously parts his lips.

Sherlock surges forward, spurred beyond control. He moves to straddle John, to gain better access. He presses the man against the mattress, elbows supporting him just over John's frame. Sherlock's tongue softly plays with John's, feeling the muscle dance. He kisses, soft wet sounds permeating the room. He explores with his tongue once more, running it across John's incisors and canines.

Tiny doubt still lurks in the back of his mind, and the threat of John biting down sends a shock of thrill down his spine. But John doesn't bite down. He opens his mouth wider, letting Sherlock have as much access as he wants. And that's better. That's so much _better_ than having him bite.

Sherlock moans, lost in it all. It's only then that he realizes his eyes are closed, and he wrenches them open, mad at himself for ever having lost John's expression at their first kiss.

John's eyes are still screwed shut, wrinkles brought into stark relief at the way John blocks out the light and the view. Still moving his lips over John's, Sherlock moves his hands to rest on either side of John's eyes. He presses at the delicate bone, not threatening, not yet, but John can still sense the command.

Slowly, John opens his eyes, staring at the hungry silver so close to his stormy blues. Sherlock drinks it all down, invites John's tongue into playing. John moves his tongue slowly, creeping into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's pupils are blown wide, but John's not sure if that's the light. Sherlock sucks at John's tongue, gently nipping down at the same time.

A genuine groan escapes John's throat, and he flushes. Sherlock grins against his mouth, and repeats the motion, but with firmer suction. The hands touching John's face become greedier, moving down his neck to his collarbone. Sherlock's careful about not pressing too much of his weight on the doctor, he kneels between John's parted thighs, and lust racks through his brain.

Wonderful as it is to kiss John, Sherlock moves down, following the trails of his hands. He nibbles and sucks on John's neck and clavicle, and another glorious sound is brought from the doctor. John's hands, which had previously been idly by his sides, come up to grip Sherlock's shoulders.

It hits him suddenly that this is the first time they've been intimate while facing each other. Without restraints.

Sherlock's tongue darts out from his mouth. He laves a pattern from John's collarbone down to his nipple, where he begins to suck softly. John's head hits the pillow, arching up into the sensation. He closes his eyes again, letting his mind and body drift in the pleasure. Slowly, Sherlock's tongue circles the hardening nub.

He sucks and kisses until it glistens red, then moves to the pair. John's toes curl underneath himself, and John bucks up his hips. While John is naked, Sherlock is completely clothed. The friction from those expensive trousers hit him just right. John moans again, and wraps his legs around Sherlock.

The man doesn't let up from his attention on John's nipples. He reaches his hands down to John's wrapped thighs, and grips. Sherlock thrusts, matching John's aborted movements. John keens in his throat, and his hands move from Sherlock's shoulders to his dark curls. He tangles his fingers in the dark hair, and shouts when Sherlock bites down.

The man chuckles, and quickly moves back up to John's lips. His hand gets lost in John's short hair, while the other moves hastily over his zip. He pulls down, and releases his cock into the cool air. Sherlock moans into John's mouth, and he grips them together in his fists.

John bucks up, gripping Sherlock's head closer to him. They pant into each other, barely parting to breathe. Sherlock smears their combined precome over themselves, and begins thrusting. It edges on painful, they barely have enough lubricant to be comfortable. Sherlock impatiently lifts up his hand and spits into it, then he's back to moving it over their joined erections.

The friction lessens somewhat, and it just becomes hard and slick. Their hips move in time, their coarse hair bringing startling sensations. John is the one to come first. His movements become more frantic, more desperate. His hands can't find what to grip first. Sherlock's hair, his shoulders, the sheets. Sherlock swallows his aborted moan, and it feels like an anti-kiss.

John comes in short spurts across his abdomen, and he sinks into the mattress. Sherlock braces himself on John's shoulders, and thrusts onto John's wet belly. The man whines from his oversensitive penis being abraded, but Sherlock pays no heed. He grinds once, twice, and John's semen is joined by his own.

Sherlock presses his mouth to John when he comes, trying to give back the gift of the anti-kiss. John accepts, lapping his tongue in Sherlock's mouth.

He slumps forward, burying his face in John's collarbone. He's not normally exhausted after an orgasm, but these last few days have taken their toll on him as well. John makes no move to push him off. Instead, he runs his fingers idly through Sherlock's hair, perhaps not even noticing what he's doing.

Sherlock smiles, and falls asleep to the soothing gesture.


	28. Chapter 28

It's two days before John starts to feel close to human again. He still has to leave the lamp on before sleeping, and if he feels clustered in any way his breathing starts to shorten, but he doesn't flinch at nothing anymore. He doesn't scream thinking he's being pulled down into bottomless water. He can move, breathe, sleep and, (he's never taking this for granted ever again) piss normally.

Sherlock has barely left him during this time. He lets John use the bathroom privately, but that's about it. He's there to sit beside him when they go back to their old routine of watching movies. Though Sherlock has skipped the facade of paying attention. He mostly types furiously on his laptop or his mobile while John stares blankly at the screen. Occasionally, he'll reach out from whatever he's doing and rest his hand against John's knee. John doesn't move toward or away from the touch.

At night, (or what he guesses is night, there are no windows), Sherlock cards his fingers through John's hair while he falls to sleep beside him. So far, neither of them have initiated any kind of sexual touch since John's first night out of the box. The monstrosity has been moved out of sight, thank God. The space seems to help with his recuperation more than anything. Now that it's not in his immediate vision, John can file it away, store it in a tight little box labeled "Hell: My 36 Hours". It goes right next to the slighter larger box called "Afghanistan".

John wonders how much horror you can file away in your life before it deteriorates your mind. How accurately can you notice that the nightmares in your life have made you something completely different from who you were? John knows he's different now. He knows that he's lost something during the time he spent in the coffin.

Maybe it's his fight. He certainly feels more...resigned than he remembers. He barely speaks anymore, and Sherlock doesn't really seem to notice. They've passed the last two days in relative silence. The only time he really says anything is what he would like to eat when Sherlock orders from the intercom in their room. Other than that, it's the occasional 'hm' or 'hum' of acknowledgement when Sherlock's ranting about something or other.

It's the third day of his comparative freedom when John meets Sebastian. Sherlock has left the room for the first time, and John is obscenely grateful. He could tell from the random twitches, fidgets, and his increased growling at the stupidity of others that the confinement was getting to him as much as John.

Sherlock had received a text about an hour ago that had the man grinning in a way John hoped to never see again. Before leaving in a frenzy of coat and mumblings, he'd left instructions to John on how to operate the intercom, (John had barely held back the snort at that. Like he's had nothing else to observe here) and left him a burner phone with Sherlock's number to text him during an emergency.

It's after Sherlock leaves that John realizes what kind of opportunity has been presented to him. He snatches up the hunk of plastic that Sherlock had left on the dresser. It's almost archaic compared to Sherlock's sleek Blackberry, but all John needs is a keypad. Sherlock left this? Really? And they must get some kind of signal if Sherlock thinks he can get a text in this building.

John's hit with a rush of contained adrenaline that makes his hands shake. He could call anyone. The police. Harry. He still doesn't know where exactly he is, but he remembers Angelo's. How close that had been.

Unless they've moved. The thought makes his heart sink to his stomach. Of course. This could be an entirely different building. Relocated to make sure John couldn't be found if he'd contacted someone during his brief stint of freedom. They could be in a boarded off, extremely refurbished house in Sussex and John would be none the wiser.

His grip tightens on the mobile, and the plastic creaks in protest. So what? Just call somebody. Call the police, tell them you've been kidnapped. Tell them what's happened. There must be something left behind. If nothing else, his story would match up with the break in at Angelo's, and they could move from there.

_Remember what happened the last time you called the police?_

John shudders with the violent memory. Anger, despair, desperation, a good man dead because he wanted to help. A crimson trail as a heavy body was dumped in an alley for the crows. John swallows down the vomit.

Who's to say Sherlock would still have that kind of access? Maybe he's relying on John's fear of being 'boxed up' again to even bother to check.

Maybe it's a test. Maybe he's got a private phone record somewhere, and he's waiting for John to mess up. Waiting for him to fail, so he can start the 'training' all over again. Or move up to something worse.

John doesn't doubt that there can be a worse. Sherlock seems fairly creative.

He presses the power button, and the screen lights up with a small chime. His breath comes out in gasps, and John is so preoccupied with his inner conflict he doesn't hear the door open.

"I wouldn't if I were you," grumbles thunder.

John drops the phone in surprise, spinning to see his visitor. The man is tall, sandy blonde, and solid muscle. Not overdone like an overcompensating bodybuilder, but not like the hidden strength that John is proud of. He's wearing black fatigues with matching t-shirt and boots. The short sleeves show off the Royal Marines crest tattoo on his left shoulder, as well as a massive array of scars.

Some are deep, some shallow. Some are recognizable knife wounds, while others are made from various burns. John can barely make out the initials JM. It's John's education as a doctor that allows him to recognize multiple breaks in the man's fingers. Most of them have been reset properly, except for his right index finger. It's completely missing.

There's a long scar over his right eyebrow, barely missing his eye. Except for that one feature, his face is unmarred. The mottled skin brings his grey eyes into sharp focus, and John can't help but tense when he looks at them directly.

He thinks it's natural instinct. His body recognizes danger of a primal quality in that man's eyes. Gunmetal would be a more appropriate term for the color. They stare, unblinking. Roaming over John's pajama clothed body, and there's no indication of mockery or sympathy. They're just assessing, weighing in the new guy. If they had met in a previous life, before words and civilization, the two would now be locked in a fight for dominance. 

John's not sure what the man finds, but he continues talking when he's done. "They enjoy their little mindfuck games, and it wouldn't surprise me at all if he left that here on purpose."

The man steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. And John can't stop the feeling of being cornered. When the silence weighs him down, John asks, "They?"

The man blinks, and John can't tell if it's from surprise. "Oh, right," the man says, "you haven't met Jim yet."

John's not sure if it's paranoia, but the way he says 'yet' makes John greatly wish he never meets Jim.

"Jim is your boyfriend's 'business partner', and my 'Sherlock'." John's too busy bristling at 'boyfriend' to acerbically comment that he could've guessed as much from the scars, thanks.

John opens his mouth, to either protest the endearment or just tell the man to fuck off, but he's interrupted. That happens a lot to him now. "The boyfriend thing wasn't an insult mate, it was advice."

It's John's turn to stare blankly back at the man. "Listen, I don't know you. We probably wouldn't even get along much, if we were left to our own lives, but, you're a fighter. A soldier. And we may have been from different divisions," John doesn't even bother to ask how he knows that, "but that still makes you a brother to me. So, from one poor bastard to another, here's a tip; Stop fighting. Give up. Surrender. Wave the white fucking flag. However you wanna phrase it, just let the sick fuck have his way with you and be done with it."

The man clears his throat, like that's the first time he's said so many words at once. John would offer him a glass of water if he wasn't so stupefied.

John's incredulous smile is flint when he asks, "Seriously? That's it? That's your little pep talk? Roll over?"

The man shrugs, "I didn't say it was good or bad advice."

"Right. And this cheery life philosophy has worked well for you has it?"

The gunmetal darkens to storm clouds, but John doesn't back down, "Thanks," he means anything besides, "but I think I'll just sort out my abysmal life problems my own way."

"Then you'll die." It's not a threat. It's a statement, and it makes John listen.

"Not the good, clean way you want either. He'll keep trying to break you first. Think of new ways to make you 'behave'. Maybe more time in the box, without a catheter. Maybe skinning you piece by piece. Maybe slowly eviscerating every person you've ever said hello to your whole life. And eventually, days or months down the line, he'll succeed. He'll shatter your soul until you're nothing but a drooling mess that can barely remember your own name. Then he'll keep 'playing', until he gets bored. Then he'll set up something really special. Something that will properly punish you for making him bored of you in the first place. And once you finally, blissfully, after hours or days, die, don't be shocked when he brings you back from the dead to start all over again."

John's face has lost all color, and he stumbles back onto the bed. He collapses, running his hand over his face. It feels searing hot against his cold skin. Even though that can't be right, because the sweat is sticking to his hair. He looks back up at the stranger, and the man watches with something that John can only describe as cold empathy. He's been down this road before, doesn't wish it on anyone, but he simply can't spare the emotion to care.

John has to swallow several times before he manages to choke out, "How is this better? How is giving up now any better?"

The man calmly says, "It's not mate. It's just the only way you got if you still want to be human."

John huffs out a breath, and his tongue darts out nervously to his lips. For several minutes, he just sits there, reeling from the choice he's going to have to make. Does he continue to fight a losing battle until there's nothing left? Or does he go along with whatever Sherlock has planned, and keep a tiny part of himself locked away, out of the bastard's reach? John figures he probably has until the madman comes back from wherever he spirited off to to come to a decision.

He's a little surprised when he realizes the man is still in his room. "What," John snaps, "curious to see what I consider the lesser of two evils?"

The man snaps back and says a completely involuntary, "Sorry. Not used to not being...," he struggles with the next word, "dismissed." The man gets his hand on the door handle before John tries to stop him. God knows when he's going to see another human face around here.

"Wait." The man pauses, and John is at a loss for words. What exactly would they talk about anyway? Swap stories of how they were kidnapped? Tips on how to distance yourself from torture? What the 'other man' likes best? The simile of a pair of housewives gossiping about their husbands springs to mind, and John shudders.

The words are out of his mouth before John has time to process them, "What's your name?"

The man blinks again and says, "Sebastian. But I'd prefer it if you called me Moran if we meet alone again." By his tone, Moran highly doubts this will happen. John's inclined to agree.

Curiosity grabs John by the common sense again and he asks, "Why'd he cut off that finger?"

He expects anger at the abrupt question, instead the man's eyes lighten with something like approval. John doesn't know it's because he'd asked about the specific digit, not why Jim did it at all. The ghost of a smirk disappears when Moran replies, "Used to be a sniper. Damn good too. One of the best. On my second night here Jim cut off my trigger finger. Said he was going to be the only important thing in my life anymore." By the end of his speech, Sebastian's absently cradling the hand with the missing appendage.

John has something like a pointless sympathetic statement on his tongue before the ex-sniper asks, "Are you right or left handed?"

Dread pools at the base of his spine when John dryly replies, "Ambidextrous."

Moran huffs out, "Ha. Lucky prick. Still, if you have a preference, start using the opposite hand a bit more. 'Sherly' may not like repeating whatever Jim does, but you can never be too careful."

All John has to say to that is, "Thanks." Now he's clutching his left hand, thinking of what Sherlock could easily do with a strategically placed scalpel on a tendon. Moran nods, taking this as his cue to leave. When the door clicks shut behind him, John wishes the man luck. Against all odds, he doesn't envy Moran at all.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was, without a doubt, the hardest conversation I've ever written. I hope I didn't botch it up, and that you guys enjoy it. *fingers crossed, eyes shut*

Moran walked down the corridor, falling back on the stride of a soldier. Here, it always felt like he was at war. Several familiar turns, and he was back in front of his boss' study. He didn't bother to knock. Jim always said it was unnecessary. Once he closed the door behind him, he stood off to the side, waiting for Jim to acknowledge him.

The master criminal typed silently away at his computer. Controlling thousands, if not millions, of lives with a single click of his mouse. After several minutes, the man looked up, not even bothering to act surprised that Seb was there.

"How did it go?" Jim asked, shuffling some papers on his desk.

"Not sure," was Seb's response.

Beetle eyes flashed up at him in annoyance. Immediately, the air seemed to cool.

"You talked to him?"

"Yes."

"Gave him the advice?"

"Yes."

"And what did he say?" Jim ground out, quickly losing patience.

"He asked me why you cut off my finger. He didn't tell me what he planned to do." Jim's eyes widen in momentary surprise, before breaking out into an empty grin.

"Well well, Sherly certainly doesn't like them dim. Guess I should have expected that the little bird wouldn't chirp." Jim runs a hand through his hair, a gesture he does when he's agitated. Tonight is going to be a long one.

"Oh well, time for Daddy to stop meddling for now. Let the kids figure it out for themselves. Sherly will be cross if I try to help anymore. I think he's still a little cross from last time." Seb says nothing. He hasn't been addressed. When Jim looks back at him, his eyes are quickly glazing over with abrupt lust. Seb knows what's coming, and steels himself for the order.

The shorter man unbuckles himself as he purrs, "Come here kitten. You've probably done enough talking today, and Daddy's had a long day at work. Time to make a better use of your mouth."

Seb does what he's told, and kneels in front of Jim while the man tugs painfully on his hair. Lapping at Jim's cock like he's been trained to do, he thinks of John Watson. Thinks of the soldier's spirit that had still been burning away in those eyes. Thinks of the way Sherlock had looked at the box in terrifying hunger when he'd been in that creep's room. He thinks of what's in store for John and his stubborn streak in the coming months.

He doesn't envy the poor bastard.

***

When Sherlock comes back, John is asleep on the bed. He jerks awake, instincts firing away when he feels someone leaning over him. Before he even knows what he's doing, he's got Sherlock pinned underneath him on the bed. One hand hovers over the man's throat, while the other has Sherlock's hands over his head on the mattress. When his mind finally catches up to his body, he leaps off like the man is on fire.

"Shit, shit," John spits, "Sorry, Jesus, Sherlock. What the hell were you thinking? I could've-" he stops, stunned as what just happened finally hits him.

He could've killed him. Could've ended it all in about two minutes if he'd continued to keep pressure on Sherlock's trachea. Done it without any guards pulling him off before he finished. But he didn't. He sprang off. He fucking _apologized_.

John cradles his head in his hands, clenching his hair in small tufts. How many times will his world be tipped on its axis around this man? How many times will he end up questioning who he is? He jumps when he feels a long, cold hand rest on his shoulder.

"John, it's alright," Sherlock says, in a voice that is clinically soothing, "you didn't hurt me. It's alright."

The way he says it makes another realization light off in John's head. Oh God, what would have happened if he'd hurt the man but didn't kill him? Would Sherlock have gotten angry, even if it was an accident? What would Sherlock getting angry at him look like? John feels like he's going to throw up. Then it becomes a very violent possibility.

He pushes Sherlock away, (don't think about the consequences of that), vaults off of the bed, and rushes to the toilet. He's bent over, sweaty, and his mouth tastes vile when the room stops spinning. He blindly paws at the switch, but Sherlock's hand beats him to it, and his sick is washed away. He stares at the clear water, barely distinguishing his reflection.

There are mirrors in the room, but this is the first time John has really looked at himself. He's sure he's the palest he's ever been, and John's almost sure that there are more wrinkles on his face than before. He looks like he's lost some weight, the skin sagged in some areas and pulled tight in others. His eyes- John closes his lids. He can't see that. Can't see what's gone from them. Not yet.

Sherlock's been running his hand up and down John's back this whole time. John presses his forehead briefly to the porcelain for stability, then pulls back. With shaky legs, he stands up and heads to the sink. Sherlock tries to help him up, but John shrugs out of the hold. He flinches when he realizes it, expects some retribution, but Sherlock is silent. He just watches intently as John rinses out his mouth with sink water.

John uses the time to think, like he's been doing ever since Moran left him in his comfortable prison. He needs to structure this right, play it correctly. He'd come to his decision about Sherlock and their...relationship, before he went to sleep. Now is the moment of truth, and John can't fuck this up. God knows what will happen if he does.

"I think..." God, this is simultaneously the most ridiculous and terrifying thing he's ever done, "I think we need to talk." John looks at Sherlock from the mirror, then turns around to face him fully. He supports himself with his hands on the sink, his knees still feeling like water. The lights had been turned on in the bathroom when Sherlock had followed after John, and the fluorescent glow throws sharp shadows on the man's cheek bones. The comparison to a skull is not helpful to John right now.

Sherlock does nothing, no mocking raise of the eyebrow, no darkening clouds in the eyes, just stands there, letting John speak. "About us," John finishes, after he's swallowed enough times to get some moisture back into his mouth.

This time, Sherlock rolls his eyes. His arms come up to cross over his chest when he asks, "I assume this is about Sebastian's visit?"

John's heart lodges in his throat. He's very grateful he's holding onto the sink. Sherlock waves a dismissal through the air with his hand.

"Hardly a difficult deduction. The keypad to the door lock has been used during my absence. Only two other people in this whole facility know the code. You want to 'talk' and not try to immediately please me. Meeting Jim would have made you try to appeal to my 'good side'." Sherlock smirks, "While meeting Sebastian would prompt you to negotiate our current dynamics." Sherlock shrugs at the end of his speech, hardly impressed.

John stares at him, gauging Sherlock's reactions to having someone else talk to him. When Sherlock continues to look expectantly at him, John hedges, "So it doesn't...upset you? Someone else talking to me?" John knows he's being blindingly obvious, trying to find out what makes Sherlock tick, but who can blame him? How is someone supposed to know the boundaries of a maniac?

Sherlock snorts, "Why would it? It prompted you to talk to me after nearly two days of dreadfully boring silence." Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes glint with predatory delight, "Go on then. Negotiate." He sneers the last word, and John's spine straightens.

"You don't get to keep me cooped up anymore," John's surprised at how steady he sounds, and that this is the first term he lets slip. He'd meant to start off small, but the damage is done. And this has been bugging at him for the longest goddamn time.

Sherlock laughs, full blown laughs, but John refuses to flinch. He's never been one to back down from danger. Sherlock pulls back the curls from his eyes with one hand, the incredulous gaze sweeps over John in full force. 

"Oh, really?", Sherlock's teeth shine in the light. " _That's_ your first demand? It's certainly a good thing you weren't a hostage negotiator. You do realize I could have small countries named after you before I'd ever let you out of my sight again?" Little chuckles shake Sherlock's frame, but John tries to push his point.

"It's driving me mad with nothing to do here, and it's the same for you too. I'm just asking to be let out for air every once in a while. You can, I don't know, have somebody follow me. Give me a prison guard or something, but I'm scratching at the walls here Sherlock."

A sudden memory. Close, too close, dark, everything black. Need to get out. Need air. Dirty, broken nails scraping repeatedly against steel. The noise, unbearable, spurs him on until his hands are near to bloody.

John sucks in a breath, and Sherlock watches his violent flashback with something like awe. "Also," John rubs his sweaty palms on his cotton pants, "we should move. Into a flat. Or at least somewhere with a bloody kitchen."

Sherlock's bemused expression is clouded over with confusion. "Why? You have everything you need here. You don't need to cook."

John rolls his eyes before he can stop himself. "It's not about cooking, it's about, independence. Being able to make myself what I want, how I want to. Having my own teakettle, not having someone bring up a fresh pot because I rung a bell." John starts getting lost in his rant, doesn't see the change in Sherlock's posture, "It's also about having my own space. Somewhere I can make a mark. A place where I'm not just blending into the furniture. Having little pointless artifacts around that help remind me that I'm a human being. That I have a personality besides being your damned sex/torture toy. Owning my own wardrobe would be nice too." John raises a sardonic eyebrow at Sherlock for that. He's worn nothing but plain low-cost uniforms since he's been here. He never knew how much he could miss the feel of jeans or his own well worn jumpers. When he fully notices Sherlock's expression, John goes very still.

Somewhere along the way, he's screwed up. John's known this was a botched attempt from the get-go, but he's crossed a line now. Any chance of cordiality or (ha!) compromise is lost now.

"And why, John, should I give you what you demand?" Sherlock is walking towards him now, and John is frozen. He can't do anything but watch as the quietly furious man stalks closer.

"Why should I let you roam free? Why should I let you be distracted by anything at all? Why shouldn't your world be centered around everything I dictate? Your food, your clothing, your sleep. I've proven time and again that I have no problems taking away any of these from you. In fact, I rather enjoy it." Sherlock stands in front John, both hands on either side of him, caging him in. The absence of space nearly sends John into another attack, but he forces himself to the present. Forces himself to pay attention. John feels something niggling in the back of his mind, and he waits to see what it is.

"Why should I give you anything at all? When I can break you down, have you scraping the floor with your forehead from the sheer _gratitude_ of letting you sleep in my bed? Have you aching for a single touch from me? Have you beg to be allowed to suck me, when it's all you can think about?" Sherlock's head leaned into John's, his breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. John stared into the light above him, lost in fear and adrenaline.

"Tell me John. Tell me why I shouldn't strip you down into something inhuman." And that. That is what it takes for John to finally get it. For all of the pieces to fall into place. Epiphany slams through him like a train, and he lets out a huff of air. Sherlock grins into John's neck, mistaking the breath of air for desperate arousal.

Confidence boosts John's bravery, and he turns to Sherlock's ear and utters, "Because you don't like to play with broken toys." Everything goes very, very quiet.

John continues, carried away by the thrill of his new knowledge, "I'm right, aren't I? You don't want a drooling piece of meat. What's the point? You could have that anywhere. What you _want_ is me. You want me to have all of my faculties."

Sherlock pulls back to stare John in the face. His eyes are completely inexpressive, just watching John come to his conclusion about Sherlock's motives. John keeps going, "You want me to be coherent. It's not _fun_ for you otherwise." The two lock eyes, staring each other down. Icy, forced indifference meets with triumphant blue.

Sherlock asks in a voice barely above a whisper, "And what if you're right? What exactly can you accomplish with this information?" It's a dare. The most dangerous challenge John has ever faced. He answers without hesitation.

"If you don't compromise with me, I'll do what you've been trying to prevent this whole time. I'll break down."

Sherlock's eyes flash with something that's gone too quickly for John to identify. The tall man leans down and forward, until their foreheads are near to touching. John's tempo only fractionally skips. "You wouldn't," the air brushes intimately across John's face, "I know you John. More than you can comprehend. You hate to lose."

"And this wouldn't be losing. I'd still win. I just wouldn't be able to see it happen." John grins, feeling some of his old self slowly seeping back. But it's different now, his soldier training is not focused on escaping. It's focused on Sherlock. The gauntlet has been thrown, and he needs what he once was if he wants to win this fight.

What he's saying isn't a bluff, he wouldn't be able to fool Sherlock if it was. If he can't have some give in his future with this madman, he'll do it. He'll become something completely unrecognizable, because at least it will be on his own terms.

Sherlock can see that plain as day, and he attempts at backpedaling, "What if I just left you alone, but unable to escape? Your mind, small though it is, would have no reason to shatter then." It's John's turn to laugh in Sherlock's face.

He sees the insult for the poor distraction it is and responds, "Apparently, I also know you more than you realize. You would seriously just leave me be? Alone in a cell? Your only interaction with me being bringing me food and a magazine or two, yeah? I'd give you, oh, three days tops before you couldn't stand it anymore. You'd either rape me again, which would send me spiraling into a depression so deep it would shatter me, or kill me for your own self-preservation. Which would be almost as bad as seeing me break, except I wouldn't be here for you to torture anymore." 

A beat, two. Then three, and doubt starts creeping up John's spine. Maybe the man will kill him now, just to end it. Maybe this surge of defiance and negotiation is the last straw for Sherlock, and he's tired of trying to keep up this game.

Sherlock's lips pull back into a wide grin. John can't keep the surprise from his face.

His eyes are still wide open when Sherlock smashes their lips together. John's hands fly from the sink to grip onto Sherlock's head and shoulders. John doesn't know what this means, if he's won or this is just some strange attempt at a diversion, but John gives as well as he gets. His tongue fights for dominance in Sherlock's mouth. He's far from the submissive man he was two nights ago.

Sherlock pushes John painfully back against the sink, and swallows John's groan of discomfort. Silently, Sherlock fervently thanks Jim for that night, eons ago, when he prompted Sherlock to get out of his study and go find somebody to spend the night with.

John, this man. This unmeetable, stubborn, glorious, lion of a man. He bites playfully at John's lips, and pulls away to look him in the eye. Thrills shoot through him when he looks into those hazy ocean depths and sees the fighting spirit edged with lust. Sherlock's grin grows wider, and he's never felt so high before in his life. His mind is crystal clear with the litany of 'John'. He may be far from gaining John's love, but Sherlock's heard that hatred is not a mutually exclusive emotion.

John's not running away, but he's not giving in either. He won't fight his imprisonment, but he will fight Sherlock. How can John think of something even better than he originally planned? How could he have been so blind to think that passive acceptance would be what he wanted from John? It's headier than he thought it would be to have someone finally surpass his previously arranged outcome.

Once more he kisses John, then pulls back to pant, "I'll think about the flat, but if you want to go outside, I'm installing you with a GPS chip."

Fear and shock stiffens John against his front, but after a pause, the man nods. "But I swear, Sherlock, if you try to put it in my arse I will seriously-" John is cut off when Sherlock proceeds to kiss the man senseless once more.


	30. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Scarification, Emotional Trauma/Manipulation

John trudged up the stairs, taking the steps one at a time. Normally, he would take them twice at once, in order to get rid of the heavy groceries faster. But he needs time to work out how he's going to have this conversation. It's bound to happen, he's already given away that something is amiss from his strange pace. John no longer has delusions about what he can hide from his flatmate.

They've had their flat for a few months now. Sherlock had protested this one, said he could easily afford something nicer and deeper within the city. But John had insisted, been persuasive in a way he prefers not to think about. Their flat is homely, comfortable. In this place, John can almost pretend he has a passably normal life.

The landlady is also perfectly sweet. John tries to avoid as many conversations with her as possible for that very reason. Most of the time, he's just making excuses for his eccentric 'boyfriend'. "I think it's great that you boys have so much energy, but maybe not so loud and close to four in the morning, hmm?" John had sputtered, managed to get out a few nods and apologies before dashing up the stairs. He'd been beet red for two hours after that. He hadn't known how to explain to Mrs. Hudson that, when it comes to their agreement on sex, John isn't allowed to deny. Ever.

He pushes open the door with his shoulder, and sends a wry, "I'll just get this myself, shall I?" to the form splayed on the sofa. Of course John doesn't expect help or a reply. He doesn't mind. John actually likes doing the menial chores that Sherlock can't be bothered with. It keeps him occupied.

He's putting away the beans when he hears "What happened?", directly behind him. John jolts around. It still gets to him how utterly silent the bastard can be. Sherlock stands incredibly close in his dressing gown, t-shirt and boxers. His gaze roams over John's figure, deducing the days' events. He sees how he'd dawdled in the park with his lunch, how insufferable the cashier was being, how long John had to stand out in the rain before finally getting a cab. What he doesn't see is what happened in front of Tesco's, before John had practically dove into the car.

"I ran into Harry," John says. He knows he doesn't need to explain. Of course Sherlock knows who she is, even though John has never mentioned her in their entire time together. Sherlock continues to stay silent with his arms crossed, and John takes this as his cue to go on.

He turns back to unpacking the groceries and says, "She practically tackled me in the middle of the street. Asked me where I'd been all of this time." That's not exactly true, but John doesn't see the need to elaborate. She'd shaken him, demanded to know where he'd spirited off to for the past eight months. It'd taken an incredible amount of self-restraint to not laugh in her face. To shake her himself, and force her to take back that statement. To tell him that he's been gone closer to the decade that John feels he's lost.

"And what did you tell her?" He can't tell from Sherlock's tone if he's on dangerous, possessive territory or mild interest anymore. Best to go with honesty. Playing coy will only land him into deeper trouble if Sherlock's not feeling playful tonight. John slides the tomatoes into the crisper drawer, ignoring the bag of human thumbs. He hopes the fresh blood smell doesn't permeate the vegetables.

"I told her I'd left on a spontaneous journey of self-discovery."

A scornful huff of laughter breaks the silence, "She actually believed that?"

"I think so, but she was too busy picking her jaw up off the pavement to really respond. I dove into the cab with a promise to fill her in later." John's closing the cupboard above his head, when his hand is entrapped by one much larger and paler than his own. The empty bags flutter around his feet when Sherlock presses against his back. His growl ghosts over John's ear and neck.

"Oh? And will you John? Will you call her?" There's certainly no mistaking the tone now.

John inhales when he feels Sherlock's free hand shove its way under his shirt, "She'll get worried if I don't."

Sherlock bites the back of John's neck and pulls him in closer. "Hmmm, not if she disappears."

Fear and anger wrack John's body, and Sherlock delights in the sudden stiffness. Sherlock nibbles the top of his spine while playing with his nipple. In Sherlock's findings, with situations like this, the baser instincts always win against the moral protestations. The mind has to respond to _something_. Sure enough, John turns around in his grip, and brings Sherlock's head down to kiss him.

Their lips press together, and John is reciprocating admirably, but he has no desire to attempt dominance right now. It's not safe for Harry. John pulls away first, chest brushing against Sherlock's with every inhale. When he opens his eyes, his pupils are blown with arousal and adrenaline.

Sherlock smirks. The desperate mind games are his favorite, because even if John gains something from it, Sherlock still wins in the end. He gets a little piece of John's acceptance every time. They haven't had such a good one in a little while.

_Go on John, convince me. Why shouldn't I kill your sister?_

"It's just a phone call, Sherlock," John murmurs, "You can monitor it, for God's sake. She just wants to know if I'm okay."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Yes, and then after she's assured of your well-being, she'll start pestering you for pick-ups at pubs again. I don't like her, John. I don't want her to bother you anymore." Sherlock nuzzles John's neck, goes back to giving little love bites. John nearly moans when Sherlock finds the right spot with unerring precision. Instead he grips Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself.

 _Not good enough, John. You know it isn't. What are you going to give me in return for your sister's continued existence?_ Sherlock's bites turn a little harsher when John takes too long in answering the unspoken question.

John squeezes, then relents with a choked, "Just your initials." Sherlock stops the torture on John's neck. He knows what the man is referring to, but he wants to hear John say it. John's hand momentarily shakes, but it stops just as quickly.

"You still have that soldering tool, right?" It's Sherlock's turn to shake, but it's from excitement, not the anxiety of agony. He looks John in the eye, and Sherlock's pupils are so wide that it's hard to distinguish the silver at all.

Sherlock breathes, "Go into the bedroom, strip down. I'll be right back." He makes to dash to his small lab at the top of the stairs, but is stopped by the hand that grips his arm.

"Sherlock-"

"You can call her, but I'll be there to direct the conversation. Any contact with her outside of that is strictly forbidden until further notice."

John's lips thin to a line, and he casts his look off to the side. He lets go before Sherlock can retort that if he delays him any longer, it will move up to his full first name.

When Sherlock comes back a minute and a half later (the damned thing had rolled under his desk and Sherlock had nearly flipped it in frustration), John is lying on his back, with his hands clasped in front of his exposed stomach.

John gets one annoyed look, before he lowers his hands to his sides. The tools clack on top of the night stand while Sherlock's hands explore John's body. They've done that before, countless times, but this is different. He's not searching for the most effective erogenous zones now. Sherlock's trying to decide the perfect place to burn his lover.

He settles on a spot. The unmarked space right by John's right hipbone. Where he'd had the imaginary limp. It seems poetic. John has not stopped staring at the ceiling the entire time. His breathing is steady, careful inhalations through his nose and exhalations from his mouth. He wonders about Mrs. Hudson, if she will be able to smell anything. He can probably pass it off as a charring experiment.

Sherlock's fingers are parting his lips, and John opens his mouth obediently. A foam stick clutters his mouth, the material lightly tickling his tongue. John holds it slightly in place with his teeth, and his breathing begins to pick up. Sherlock strokes his cheeks, and kisses him on the forehead. "You're so wonderful," he murmurs into John's skin. John squeezes his eyes from the unwanted rush the praise gives him.

Sherlock's presence vanishes, to be replaced with the sound of a cord being plugged in. For several seconds, the air is tense with nothing. Then John can swear he can smell burning metal, and the faint buzzing of electricity. "Do I need to tie you down?" Sherlock asks. John knows it is not an idle question. In response, he grips the headboard and shakes his head.

John can't see the proud smile Sherlock gives him. His free hand smooths over the delicate skin, slightly stretching it over the bone. John clenches tighter onto the headboard, and closes his eyes. He can feel the heat of the metal tip hovering over his skin. John thinks of Harry, and braces himself.

It's still not enough to stop the scream when Sherlock finally touches down.

It's strangled and choked, close to muffled by the stick. John bites down hard enough to send aches up his jaw, and he hears the bed creaking from his grip. Then Sherlock pulls away, and somehow that's worse. Now it's spreading from the concentrated area of his hip, to his entire lower half. He can feel it traveling up his nerves, his body screaming at him to move, to get away from the source of agony. The charred meat smell nearly makes him vomit, but he chokes it down before it reaches his mouth. He chants Harry over and over again in his mind. Despair stops his litany when Sherlock says, "That's one line down. You're doing admirably John."

Then John's screaming again, and he doesn't know how long it goes on. Eventually, John realizes that the tool is no longer on his skin. Tears have soaked his face and the pillow underneath him. His arms ache, but when he tries to unclench his hands, they don't move. He whimpers behind the stick that sticks to the roof of his mouth, and then Sherlock is there. He is always there.

Carefully, he releases the fingers one at a time, and has John cross his arms over his chest. The rush of blood hurts, but it is a dull ache compared to the stinging numbness of his right side. He pushes the stick out of his mouth with his tongue, and takes a shuddering breath. Sherlock brushes his hands reassuringly across John's wrists, and leaves. John is too tired and hurting to protest the abandonment. But Sherlock does come back, with a small tub of water. Slowly, he pours the liquid over John's hip, and he can't help the yell that is forced from him.

It does help to ease some of the pain, but only just barely. Methodically, Sherlock washes away the pus and blood, leaving only the loose skin that will be required to actually scar the burn. The scent of smoke and meat is disgusting, but Sherlock eagerly swallows it all. He didn't know he could sublimate John. How glorious. Maybe he should bottle it. But the worst of it has already dispersed out the open window. A pity.

To reduce the risk of infection, Sherlock places a plastic cover over the scarlet wound, and tapes it down. John will not be able to move comfortably for a while, and neither of them will be able to eat cooked steak without some varying reaction. (John will vomit, Sherlock will be aroused)

Through the opaque material, Sherlock can make out his initials with the rising blood. He'll keep that when he has to change John's dressing.

He moves to the other side of the bed, and curls around John's shivering frame. He remembers that shock might be prevalent in some burn victims, so he wraps his arms underneath and around John's shoulders. The shivering doesn't stop, but he does bury his face into Sherlock's neck. A few more sobs wrack his body, and he grows still. Sherlock knows he is not asleep, but he doesn't attempt to make conversation.

He's more than content, lying next to his lover, every inch of him, even his pores, permeated with pure John. In a few days, he'll be able to fully see the scar. To see how much John belongs to him. He curls a little tighter, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

As John stares into the pale column of skin, he wonders just what he'll have to give up next time. He'd been meaning to save the burn scars for getting a job at surgery. But this is worth it. This is fine. He can find something else. He thinks of the tiny chip in his shoulder, and the unceasing burn on his hip. Sherlock mentioned something about controlling his diet one time. And Sherlock liked the riding crop experiment well enough. Maybe he wouldn't mind a repeat. That's doable. That's fine.

It's all fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for staying with me on this incredibly insane journey! Each comment, view, and bookmark made my heart swell three sizes each day! :) This is the end of the story, but not the end of the series. There are a few more things I want to do in this universe. Be it one shots or a whole sequel (debating) I want to explore this a little more. Again, thank you so much, and I look forward to churning out some more dark things in the future. 
> 
> P.S.
> 
> You should know that if I disappear for a while, it's probably the F.B.I and they've found my search history.
> 
> P.P.S
> 
> I HAVE FANART. GO BASK IN THEIR LOVELINESS. THANK YOU SO MUCH.
> 
> http://comealongpond14.deviantart.com/art/Movie-Time-385244167?ga_submit_new=10%253A1373770343


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